a friend called me to tell me the news, and i cried, and screamed, and swore. maybe this is the beginning of the end. while my sleeping patterns are off, and my mood shifts constantly, maybe this finally means putting some of my demons to rest. it means tattooing a tombstone to my elbow, and sleeping with the lights off, and opening the pieces of my heart that i’ve cut off for so many years.

i have officially been living in my apartment for one year. no overnight moves, no roommates, no sketchy activity, no drugs, no arguments, no yelling, no fear. i haven’t packed up my belongings, and i haven’t rented moving trucks, or storage locations. i haven’t fallen off the wagon, or gone to work shitfaced, or let someone hurt me beyond repair. i’ve had the same job since february 2012, that’s almost fifteen months. i’ve gotten significant raises, and benefits, and a new office. i’ve lost weight, and i’ve changed my eating habits. i cook to relax and unwind. i plan meals, and i buy organic, and i don’t eat meat or dairy. i spend weekends with my family, i go dancing with my friends, i watch documentaries, i bake pies, i do weekly crafts, i sew my clothing, and i buy new furniture. i treat myself, and i do it often. i get tattooed, and i go to the salon, and i buy clothes in smaller sizes. i have clothing swaps, and i cook for two, and i mop my floors, and change my bed sheets, and paint.

and i’ve told a man i am in love with him.

and i meant it.

i meant every consonant and every vowel and every beat of my heart as it pounded against my chest as i whispered, “i love you, too”

…because he said it first.

i mean it, when my lips touch his skin, and my hands hold his face, and my fingers are laced with his as we walk down the street and giggle into the chilly afternoon air. because yeah, he makes me fucking giggle. he makes me laugh. i wake up in the morning and my face hurts because i am still smiling when i open my eyes and he is laying next to me, his hands on my butt, and his nose in my neck.

the seasons are changing.

i am paying off some debt, and i am working hard, and i am living honestly. i’ve been smiling, and i have felt weightless and light. i can’t remember the last time i felt so hopeful. i can’t remember the last time someone made me feel this good, and so effortlessly too. and most importantly, i can’t remember the last time i felt this good about me. about my progress. about my ability to move forward. people constantly told me that i am independent to a fault- that it is ultimately the downfall of my relationships. but i am finally realizing that maybe the men i have been dating were too insecure to see the bravery in that. the strength and the will. they were too insecure to understand the damage of abuse and the hope in survival. they were too insecure to ask me what happened, and more importantly- to accept what happen without seeing me as damaged goods. and fuck that. fuck all of that, because my independence is not a flaw, and i am not broken, and i will be stronger and better than this, and them. i will talk openly about the hell m put me through, and about my ups and my downs, and shamelessly so.

because that is healing, and that is healthy, and THIS is progress.

he said i’m fragile and sensitive, and i crack and break easy, and it just isn’t my job to fix people who can’t be fixed. and i get it. i want to give all my money to homeless people, and adopt every kitten on the planet, and mother and nurture and mend. i want to sew patches and kiss boo-boos and wrap up leftovers and remove stains. i want to tuck in, and iron out wrinkles, and tell someone everything is going to be okay, and then do everything in my power to make sure everything will be okay.

a friend of mine recently stayed overnight. he was in town for the weekend, and he showed up on my doorstep at one in the morning, and we took off our pants, and got into bed, and wrapped our legs around one another. we kissed slowly, and he ran his fingers up and down my spine, and as we were drifting to sleep, he told me he was afraid of moving home… of coming back to this city, and starting over, and what if this was taking steps back, when all he wanted was to move forward?

i don’t know.

i rolled over, and sighed deeply, and he kissed me three times, softly, on the back of my neck, and that was it. we fell asleep, and woke up still holding on as tightly as we had been, hours before. i usually hate that, but there is just something about his fingertips, and the scent of his chest as i watched the time pass slowly as the sun poured into my bedroom.

i hadn’t kissed him since halloween night, and there is something incredibly unsexy about kissing a man in costume… and yet, this morning, as he buttoned the black plaid to his neck, and laced up his boots, i couldn’t remember the last time i’d been so physically attracted to someone i hadn’t shared more than a kiss with. his hair was a mess, and his eyes were tired, and holy shit, he could not have looked sexier if he even tried. he said he’d see me soon, although i know i won’t see him for months, and that’s fine. i have started being fine with wanting people i don’t have.

because that’s what i do. there is something incredibly romantic about kissing a man and sharing moments few and far between. of speaking to each other every few weeks, and every moment spent talking to one another, or holding one another is so insanely passionate. and i have to stop falling for these moments, and finding importance in these fragments of my life. because they are just that : fragments of a whole.

because that’s just it.

i have to stop trying to save everyone. i have to stop romanticizing these bits and pieces of my life.

and i have been. maybe it’s cynicism, maybe i’m jaded, or perhaps i’ve just run out of patience. whatever it is, there has been this apparent void in my chest, and this dull ache in my heart, and i haven’t quite put my finger on it just yet but i can tell you i’ve been crying. i’ve been doing that a lot, even… and i suppose it’s time to deal with some things. i was recently given the number to a crisis centre, but is it really a crisis if the situations in question happened five years ago, and spanned three years, and is it really even a crisis if half the time i actually feel okay about it?

maybe it’s time i start getting answers.

there are pieces of an old me, of an old life, lingering still in the present- in my presence. he helped build a piece of me i don’t know how to outgrow. people still refer to him as mine, and i as his, and i hate it. there wasn’t anyone before him, and there hasn’t been anyone since.

i mean… there has.

but not like that.

he was hands, and mornings, and breakfast and sunshine. he was the only way i knew how to start my day if i wanted to finish it at all. he was daytime phone calls, and afternoon naps, and evening bubble baths. he ran the water, and lathered the soap, and washed my hair. when i sink to the bottom of my tub, sometimes i can feel his perfectly manicured nails grazing my scalp, as i slip into a daze, this half-slumber, numbed by the heat of the bath water i always run too hot.

he was farmer’s markets and healthy meals and drinking enough water.

—

i worry that i am incapable of loving anyone the way i loved him, once. before the anger, and before the abuse, and before he ruined the only good pieces of me i had left. i worry he broke the working parts of my emotional brain- the parts that allow me to feel, and to fall, and to be weightless in love, and in life. the parts of the brain that aren’t clouded by agony. and yet they are. and i can’t fix that.

i worry that strangers can see the tiny black cloud above my head, or the void in the ventricles of my heart. it shrank, that void. it went from gaping vortex to pinhole, and yet i can still feel the breeze. i can still feel the leak. and i worry that nothing could bandage that kind of loss.

people tell me they see independence. they see strength, and courage, and they see the battles i have fought, the struggles i am trying to overcome. they see a warrior. a fighter. a five-foot tall feminist… with eyes sharp like daggers, and words harsh like the first frost. and i feel that. i feel it in my bones. i feel tough, and i walk with conviction, and fuck with confidence.

but when i collapse into the comfort of my own home between my walls full of secrets- and i peel the layers of a me i’ve perfected, all that’s left is this damaged, sad, broken little girl, with eyes black like night, and words soft like clouds. my frail little limbs peeking out from t-shirts that have become too big. my knees bruised like peaches, and my lips cracked like january ice.

—

there are a few constants in my life.

in november i became an aunt, and everything i have ever known evades me. she (she’s a she!) has brought light to a life shattered by darkness, and i feel whole when she is in my arms- my brother looking at me lovingly, knowing that this little bean has saved me.

i almost left.

it was the summer, and i was in lust with a man in love with someone else. he was five hours from home, and i left a part of me in my city every time i went to be with him. when i finally left, and picked up my pieces back at home, she was born and i was saved. and that was that. my brother sent a message me, thanking me for being here. thanking me for coming home. thanking me for being a part of his daughter’s life.

it all sounds so cliché.

yes my family is incredible, and yes i am luckier than most, and how could a baby (that isn’t mine) change me? but she has, and she did, and that’s that. there isn’t an answer, only a reason, and for that i am grateful. this is progress.

—

this too shall pass.

life, i mean.

a few months ago, i was standing in my parents’ kitchen, trying desperately to catch my breath, trying to find the words to explain something i’d been trying to hide from them my entire life. and despite my love for language, and words, and how i know i can twist something ugly into prose that could make someone’s heart stop… it doesn’t change the fact that sometimes, there is beauty in simplicity. there is understanding in blatancy.

“i’m not happy”

i don’t know how many times i can repeat this until it fucking sticks.

i don’t know how to explain to people that a pretty house with nice things, and an incredible job to pay for those things, and a kitten, and friends, and love interests… none of it fills the void. there are holes in my life, there are secrets i’ve locked up, there is discrepancy in everything. i’m a fucking train wreck of a human being. and i ignore it so perfectly.

i don’t know how to reverse the things i was forced to believe. i don’t know how to fucking turn off his voice inside my head, or the fear inside my heart. how is it that i could leave the house, and move on with my life the day after he choked me out? how could i act so normal with his hand prints on my neck and the wobble in my knees from having him shake me so hard? and now, years after i’d left him forever… i sometimes get scared to leave the house, or look in the mirror, or be in certain parts of the city. i won’t pick up phone calls from unknown numbers. i can’t hear a fucking song that reminds me of him without crying. just when i think i’ve started to forget, i remember the black of his eyes in the sunlight, or the pink of his lips when he’d tell me he loved me, or where his pants would sit on his hip line- carelessly.

and it makes me fucking sick.

a few weeks ago, i had dinner with my mother. we sat silently across from one another, and she started crying.

“you loved him, didn’t you? you loved him more than you’d ever loved anyone…”

i lowered my head and nodded.

“he was so handsome”, she said. “how could he be so handsome, and so evil?”, she wanted to know.

i’d like to know that too.

i’d like to know how i was able to look into his eyes and simultaneously see the man i wanted to spend the rest of my life with, and the man i knew i was going to spend the rest of my life running from. how i could look at him and be living both ends of the spectrum so fiercely. how i wanted to hold him and love him, and feel the rightness of his body against my body, and how i wanted to push him away, and hate him, and rid myself of the repugnant feeling of his skin on mine.

how do you make sense of that? how could i feel such a magnetic pull to someone who lived to harm me?

a few years ago, i ran into him at a bar. he was walking out, and i was walking in, and we literally bumped into each other. i froze in terror, as i saw his lip curl upwards. he looked down at me, smirked, and said, “that’s right… RUN.”

and i did.
i fucking ran.
because he told me to.

that same night, i found myself sitting face to face with him at some shitty 50′s diner. it was pouring rain, and we were holding hands, and he told me i was pretty. he told me i’d always been so pretty. and he just sat there, looking at me, hands shaking, and crying. he told me he loved me… that it had always been me. and i knew he was right. it had always been me, and it will always be him. i don’t think i could ever love another man the way i loved him- not after having it ripped from me the way he did. i don’t think i could ever let myself love someone like that ever again… whole-heartedly, and without even trying. honestly and without regret or condition.

at his best, at his worst.
in sickness and in health.
in richness and in poorness.
until death almost did us part.

because  i knew no other way.

because i still haven’t a fucking clue.

i’m young. i have a life ahead of me… one full of possibilities and opportunities and escapades. i’m not naive in that respect. i know i have so much to learn, and incredible people i have yet to meet.

but i also know what i want.

and i know i’m not about to start dating someone i can’t picture a future with- and i know that a lot of that can only be determined when you start a relationship with someone and get to know each other. really know each other…

so let’s go ahead and get this shit out of the way :

i’m obsessive, i’m compulsive, and i wear my heart on my sleeve. i like routine, romanticism, and relaxing nights in. i could watch movies for six hours and not get bored. i’ll clean up after you while you’re still in the kitchen. i’ll get really irritated over little thing- not changing the toilet paper roll, or leaving dirty dishes in the living room. i hate clutter, i like clean lines, and i think it matters whether or not someone will put a poster in a frame. i fold blankets after i use them, i wash my towels regularly, and i don’t make my bed. i hate negativity, it hurts my feelings when someone won’t take as much interest in my hobbies, as i do theirs. i gag every time i brush my teeth, i need to shower every single morning, and i’m almost 100% sure i snore when i’m drunk. i smoke weed in bed, i’m horrible at mornings, and i need coffee a few times a day to function. i like holding hands, i think kissing is important, and i need to have a lot of sex. i think having similar diets and a love for food are important. i’m extremely close to my family, i talk to my parents every day, and i constantly feel like i’m making up for lost time with them. i want to get married, i want to have kids, and i want to be the best at both of those. i am hyper-sensitive, i cry easily, and i think it’s as important to say how you feel as it is to show it. i hate holding back, i can’t stand second-guessing myself, and i don’t like feeling weak. i have baggage – a fuckload of it. i need to be with someone who isn’t so fucking terrified of the feelings inside of my heart. i need to stop being afraid to say what i mean. i need to  stop settling on relationships that hold me back- emotionally and physically. i’m trying desperately to heal (on my own terms, without using bandaids), and every time i feel like i’m almost there, the person i am dating knocks me back down five steps because they get scared of something real. they worry too goddamn much.

people obsess over the little things- the things we hate, the things that drive us completely bat-shit crazy. fuck, i could write a novel about all the irritating, selfish things michael would do that made my skin crawl : chewing with his mouth open, the way he would look at me when he didn’t find my jokes funny, every time he texted ‘mhmmm’, if he didn’t agree with something. christ man, funny is all i’ve got- cut me some slack.

i digress.

we meet people and fall head over heels stupid for each other until we find enough reasons to hate them and leave. it’s a fucking cop-out and we’re all guilty of it. two (of the many) reasons michael and i broke up, according to him : pressure (what if i moved five hours away from home to be with him, and it didn’t work out), and love (he honestly didn’t think anyone was capable of loving him).

yeah?

we’re back here? quantum mechanics again, really?

you guys. schrödinger’s cat. there is a cat, in a fucking box, and the cat can be thought of both alive and dead, but you will never know the answer until you lift that fucking lid, look inside of the box, and find out for your fucking self if the cat is breathing, or not.

and for the record, 95 percent of the time, the cat will be dead as shit. but everyone is so goddamn scared to open the lid and find out, so we all quit before we even give it a chance. we’d rather avoid the heartache, and the effort, and the potential misery all because we are scared.

OF A HYPOTHETICAL DEAD CAT.

(if i’ve lost you, the cat is a metaphor for a relationship).

so that’s my piece. i’ve said it. i’m angry, and i’m irritated that i keep putting so much love, effort and faith in people so quick to throw it all away when things become real.

i think i cried more in january and february 2012 than i probably ever have in my life. there wasn’t any specific timing for it, or reasons in particular (other than everything). i’d cry when i put on my pants, and i’d cry when i’d brush my teeth. i’d sit in the shower and let the water burn my skin and stare at the blue tiles, choking back ugly sobs and big tears. i’d burst into tears at the super market, and i’d cry walking down the street. i’d call my best friend and cry on the phone, and i’d show up at his door with tears running down my face. i’d cry when i watched movies, and at text messages, and when i didn’t know what to make for dinner. i’d cry when my cat would yawn, or the washing machine would overflow, or if i couldn’t figure out what TV show i wanted to watch.

i fucking cried all the time.

i was seeing a very, very patient man at the time- someone i certainly didn’t see a future with. someone with a soft touch, and hard words. someone with whom i could pass the time; a distraction. but man, did he give a shit. and thank god for that, because there was a moment where we were sitting on my couch, and i must have blacked out, because the next thing i knew i was on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, telling him how much i hated my life.

and despite how new things were, and how un-serious it was, he gave a shit.

he picked me up off the floor, and told me i was scaring him, and asked me if i needed him to stay. and despite all the bullshit i have been through, and the horror i’ve survived, and the depression that has been swallowing me whole for years now… i don’t think i had ever EVER let anyone see me that vulnerable.

i’ve cried, and i’ve asked for help, and i’ve broken down in front of people…

but i have never, ever been so brutally honest with someone about how i really felt about myself, about my life… about this life i didn’t want anything to do with anymore. and i get scared to think of that now. that was barely a year ago. ten months is not long enough to fix a broken brain, or a healing heart. it isn’t long enough to rebuild, or to reshape, or to even be okay.

yes, i found a place to live, and yes i got an incredible job, and yes i have met the man of my dreams…

but those aren’t bandaids. they aren’t filler for the void or the cracks. i think that’s what i’m finally realizing now. i have money in the bank, and a beautiful home, and a man who cares for me… but those things don’t heal scars, or wounds. they don’t undo the damage that has been done, or the things that i have lost, or the incredible sadness that has been in my heart since i was a child.

and i don’t know what to fucking do about that.

i get jealous of people who can be happy. of women who meet men who want to marry them. of mother’s and their beautiful children with perfect names. of people who have confidence, and who can take a hit in life, or in love and not feel like their entire world is crumbling at their feet. i’m worried i’ll be angry forever. because the man who wanted to marry me put his hands on me, and fucked other women, and told me every day that i was worthless. and i’m angry because i believed him. i’m angry because i let the fear of being linked to him forever take away the confidence i had in myself to be a good mother. because truthfully : i didn’t need to bear his children to be linked to him forever. i’m bound by fear, and a control he never lost. everywhere i go, i look over my shoulder, and i worry. every new house i move into is one he could potentially find. and i’m fucking sick of it.

i’m big, you’re small
i’m right, you’re wrong
and there’s nothing you can do about it.

i was beaten into believing this since the age of seventeen.

and there is nothing i can do about it.

what do regular seventeen year olds do? i don’t have a fucking clue- i’d honestly like to know. because i was trying to pay bills, and finish high school, and work every single day. i was getting drunk, and sleeping with my boots on, and waiting for my junkie boyfriend to come home. i had to patch and fill holes in the wall, and lie through my teeth. i had to starve for days because there was no food in the shitty apartment we called home. i had to cower and hide in corners with my hands over my ears, screaming for him to stop when he’d go on his rampages. i had to hold my breath, and count to ten, and pray to fucking god that when he’d come through that door, he’d be in a good mood. i had to eat a teacher’s leftover dinner for days because he didn’t want to share. i had to cover up bruises, and learn how to cry quietly. i had to avoid the parts of the city he’d be in, and i had to to apologize when i aborted his baby. i had to heal without him, and i had to deal with the sadness alone because he was too busy getting shitfaced. and worst of all (and somehow the easiest), i had to learn to smile when all i wanted to do was die.

and yeah, i still fucking resent him for that. for all of it. because i was never angry until i met him. i was never vindictive, or hateful, or mean. and now i have this rage inside of me, and it rears its ugly head in situations that wouldn’t normally affect me. and yet here i am, pissed over things that don’t matter, and sick to my stomach over petty bullshit i am bigger than, and hurt because i am too insecure to stand up for myself anymore.

every september the world celebrates another year of him being on this earth, and every september i celebrate another year i made it away from him. when i finally left, i counted the hours, and when i learned to get out of bed again, i started counting the days, and when that became easier i counted the months, and when i finally realized i made it out of this alive, i started celebrating the victory of the years since i was even in contact with him.

i guess that’s a start.

i’m finally starting to forget the sound of his voice, and the smell of his skin, or the liquor on his breath. i don’t remember how tall he is, or his favourite food, or what size shoes he wears. and the second i forget how rough his hands felt wrapped around my neck, or what my insides feel like when i see his face… i know i’ll finally have made it. and i can finally begin to celebrate the victory of becoming whole again.

because that day will come, and it when it does… there will be a fucking party.

… a huge thank you to maggie and the VU team for giving me (and hundreds of others) a safe place to share my (our) story.

i am incredibly blessed for the huge amount of support: the outreach, the love, the constant reminder that i am not alone.

thank you… a million times thank you.

xx

- e

—

for more posts on the subject posted on my own blog, go here

i recently bought this incredible patch from this etsy shop.

i take pride in dressing like an angsty teenager, okay?

when i showed this to my mother, the first thing out of her mouth was, “i just don’t want anyone to hurt you for what you believe in”.

which is totally fair- especially coming from my mama. but after giving it some thought… it really made me angry. not at her, of course, but that wearing a pretty little floral back patch with a cat on it could potentially put me in danger, simply because the words pro-choice and feminism were on it.

my first thought is this:

i’ve been chastised and judged based on my appearance for as long as i can remember- whether it be for controversial band patches sewed onto my clothing, or the tattoos inked into my skin: someone has always had an opinion. even as a young girl, instead of being congratulated or praised for having such a strong opinion, and standing so firmly for what i believe in, i was constantly in trouble. in the seventh grade i had to print out Rancid lyrics for my principal, just so he could decide whether or not i could wear their t-shirt in the school hallways- while the rest of the student body were allowed to wear 50 cent t-shirts, and baggy jeans below their butts. because apparently thirteen year olds promoting sex and drugs is much more appropriate.

and what about the religious fanatics on public transportation grabbing at my skin, throwing their rosaries in my face, and praying at my tattoos- begging god to save me from a life of sin.

or the ignorant teenagers that called me a freak for having purple hair and wearing a leftover crack patch on my denim jacket.

or the judgemental assholes who called me a nazi for wearing doc martens. here’s a little tip: educate yourself on the skinhead movement before you call someone a racist… because that’s a pretty strong accusation if i’ve ever heard one.

i digress…

i’d just like to know what in the hell makes it okay for pro-lifers to march the city streets with signs displaying pictures of an aborted fetus, and yet i can’t sport a back patch stating my personal opinion. i completely agree that abortion should not be used as a form of birth control, and if you’re taking risks, then you should be ready to accept the concequences… but accidents DO happen. and for some women, going through the process of aborting their child is their worst nightmare.

i know because i’m one of those women.

my pregnancy was an accident. i was using birth control, i was safe… and yet at seventeen, freshly dumped by my abusive, junky of a boyfriend, i found myself pregnant with his child.

i had a choice.

a choice! oh, what a world!

did i make the right decision? could i have made it work? am i selfish?

as a woman, this was the hardest decision i ever made. but i look at my life now, and i know at the bottom of my heart that i could not have given my sweet baby the life she deserved. a life with healthy, loving parents. a life void of fear and abuse. because how do you explain bruises to a child? how do you explain the binges and the anger and the terror and the drugs? i could barely save myself from the horror of loving m, how in the world could i have protected her from it?

do you know how hard it is to see a picture of a dead infant, when you’re still mourning the loss of your own? i’m very aware of what i did, and i will punish myself forever because of my decision, in some way. i certainly don’t need a constant reminder that i wasn’t fit to be a parent at seventeen. i don’t need to be reminded that i made the decision i made because the monster of a man i was selfishly, and stupidly in love with could have potentially been an even worse father than he was a boyfriend.

i’m not afraid to defend how i feel.

after the years of abuse i survived at his hands, i made the choice to save my baby from that same kind of pain. and fuck you if you can’t appreciate that.

the world is scary, and it can be ugly, and people are mean.

i spent so much time being angry, when i could have spent it opening my heart, and learning to love again. high shcool was a bust, and adulthood was and continues to be an endless road of self-discovery. and if there is anything i’ve learned at all, it’s how important it is to band together, as human beings.

and as for feminism?

i once read somewhere that feminism isn’t about man hate… it’s about woman love.

amen, sister.

it could have been very easy for me to hate all males because woe is me, and a man ruined me forever, etc… but i’m not that kind of woman. i have strength, and pride, and courage. and he just happened to be one bad seed in the crop of incredible men i’ve had the pleasure of meeting in my life. and women- WOMEN! need to stop hating each other!

there’s an incredible amount of jealousy, and insane amounts of pressure to be the ideal woman.

and what the fuck is that?

who decides what our roles should be? whether you want to be a busy business woman, or a raise a family and be a wife- or gasp! both! … just do it. do what makes you happy, and live the life you want to live. personally, i don’t want an enormous house, or a minivan in the garage… but i know i want to marry a good man, and make babies with him, and raise those little hipster babies with off-beat names not to be ignorant shitheads in society. that’s my goal… i want to raise a family, and love them with with every fibre of my being. i want to support who they want to be, and what they want to be, and everything they need to do to get there. they can be who they want to be, so long as they don’t hurt anyone in the process.

because that’s all this is about…

learning to believe in what we want to believe in without inflicting pain on other people.

and who decides that a size 0 waist is better than a woman with curves, or that long hair is better than short hair? every single thing about every single person can be beautiful, if you look at it the right way. nobody on this planet is built the same. some women have to work out seven times a week, and cut carbs from their diets just to fit into a size ten. other women get to eat cheeseburgers for breakfast, and they look incredible in bikinis.

who fucking cares.

my parents raised me to be tolerant, and to love myself first.

THE HORROR!

don’t get me wrong… i struggle sometimes. i look in the mirror, and i hate my stretch marks, or my thighs are too thick for cut-off shorts. but i was blessed with healthy hair, and great nailbeds, and tits til tuesday. while i have to work very hard to keep my waist small, other things come so easy for me. i’ve never shaved my armpits, for example. i just don’t grow hair there! it’s soft, like a baby’s butt, and i am ready for strapless dresses and bikini tops all summer. and yet, i can’t cut myself a break because of my big butt.

christ.

first world problems, AMIRITE?!

listen… all i’m trying to say is that everyone has a right to an opinion. maybe the delivery is what needs a little work- but whatever. express how you feel, and say what you mean! don’t hide, don’t hold back… don’t be afraid to be who you are- so long as you aren’t hurting anyone… because who you are is all you’ve got, in the end.

learn it! live it! love it!

appreciate the women (AND MEN!) around you. remember: everything is relative, and we’ve all had to overcome pain, or stress, or loss- in some way or another. love your friends, praise the strong women (AND MEN!) you meet in your life, and don’t get so hungup over the fact that they look better in skinny jeans than you do, or they have more money in their bank account, or they’ve reached a point in their lives that you haven’t reached quite yet.

because what do you know about my pain? the struggle to make it through every day? and what do i know about yours? instead of hating each other, get to know the women (AND MEN!) around you, and learn to love everything about them that makes them who they are. it isn’t always easy- but fuck, at least stop hating. that’s a first step, isn’t it?

because i may have a fat ass… but i have a good head on my shoulders, strong skin on my bones, and love in my heart to give.

so spread the love, (wo)man.

my brother and his wife are going to be first-time parents to a sweet little thing sometime in november, and my heart has swollen to the size of the universe. i’m overwhelmed with pride and joy, and an indescribable amount of love for this sweet little bean i haven’t even met yet.

they’ve painted the nursery tiffany blue, and they’re getting all white furniture. they’ve also opted not to find out the sex of the baby- i’d never have that kind of strength! – but i am thrilled with the surprise, and anticipation of not knowing. will this baby have jo’s red locks and dark eyes, or cory’s white hair and blue peepers- i can’t wait to find out!

miles and i miss you’s distinguish this relationship, and our lives are measured in countdowns.

that’s what he told me, once. we were holding each other, intertwined in his star wars bedsheets, kissing between action scenes from robocop. he pushed the hair from my face, kissed me softly on my lips, and said, “is this our destiny? is our life going to be measured in countdowns?”.

yes, absolutely, yes.

and while a part of me struggles with our hello’s (so perfectly executed), and our goodbye’s (so painfully hard), i force myself to embrace these moments, and remember these memories with a vividness striking enough to remember in my darkest times.

we’re standing in my kitchen, and he is intently watching me cook. taking pictures of me- hair dishelveled, t-shirt slipping off my shoulder, not wearing pants- and my heart is filled with so much emotion, i can barely catch my own breath. he’s pacing around, air-guitaring, and giggling… so happy he can barely contain himself. this is how i think of him, always. when i miss him the most, and when i am at my worst, i think of the softness of his hands, wrapped around my waist, with a kindness so new to me… and i’m paralyzed.

.. and for the first time in years, i am not paralyzed by sadness, or fear. i am paralyzed by the love i have for this man- bursting in my chest, and pulsing through my veins, and jesus christ, how in the hell did i get this lucky?

écrire est une forme de mensonge.
c’est-à-dire de fiction, de hâblerie,
de mystification. simplement
parce qu’on ne peut pas tout dire. *
- Robert Lalonde

* writing is a form of lying.
that is to say fiction, bragging,
mystification. simply
because we cannot say everything.

i disagree.

because in writing, i can finally tell my truths, open my heart and say everything my mouth can’t.

i’m standing on the edge of my own life, and looking over the ledge to find nothing but black. a void so ugly, so terrifyingly imposing… and then suddenly: light. love. change.

and i want to thank him, and kiss him, and hold him against my body, and tell him i love him in a way i never thought i’d be capable of loving a human being ever again- with trust and honesty, and with a newness and spark i thought would have been lost forever.

but no, it isn’t.

because there he is, sleeping soundly between my sheets, holding onto my ribs, and steadily inhaling and exhaling on my neck, and… what’s the opposite of calculated? nothing has ever felt so the opposite of calculated than this. he is mine, and i am his, and here we are, just belonging to each other- just being. happily breathing between each other’s breaths, and waking up to the smell of skin, and snoring, and sex in the early stages of summer.

suddenly now I know where I belong
it’s many hundred miles and it won’t be long
- feist & ben gibbard

three days.