Tag Archives: ugh

that day will come…

Posted on by

1

last year i hit bottom.

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.

relationships / realizations

Posted on by

2

i’m a creature of habit.

i buy the same things at the grocery store on a weekly basis, i enjoy an evening completed with a bubble bath, a fresh coat of nail polish, and a joint pressed tightly between my fingers before i lean over to flick the switch off my anchor lamp on my bedside table. i always put avocados in my sandwiches, i call brad at 4:30 every single day when i’m leaving the office, and i’m comforted by the smell of my bedsheets when i wake up. i’m not good at mornings, i rarely rotate shampoo brands, i’ve been wearing the same perfume for over five years, and i’m damn near unbearable to be around when my routines are fucked with.

i’m also bad at new relationships.

horrible at them, even.

what if i’m holding on too tightly? what if i haven’t been holding on tightly enough? am i selfless, and when i smile- can he feel it in his gut; could my love move mountains? i fluctuate between feeling like the best girlfriend on the planet, and wondering if he may be missing out on something greater. it’s a horrible issue of self-confidence, and i’m aware of how debilitating it can be.

a few weeks ago, brad left for ten days on a road trip to the states, and my mornings were fucked because i hate waking up without him, and my afternoons were a write-off because i constantly checked my phone at the time i knew he’d be waking up if he were home- knowing i wouldn’t hear from him constantly because of long-distance charges… and that’s where it hit me.

at that point, he had been gone exactly five days, and i missed his frigging guts.

i missed his daily texts, and the sound of his voice at 4:30 in the afternoon, and the taste of his lips after dinner. i missed the smell of his laundry detergent, and the sound of him exhaling as he would fall asleep next to me, and again when i’d wake up before him. i missed cooking dinner together, and playing scrabble in the evenings, and drinking chai tea at the movie theatre. i missed the way he’d play with my hands, as we layed on his bed- soaking in a silence so comfortable i could barely even describe it.

FIVE DAYS, he was gone when i realized how much i cared about him.

FIVE DAYS, when i realized it wouldn’t work between us.

it isn’t about independence…

it’s just that things felt so goddamn good when he was around that i could forget about the bullshit inside of my head. i could soak in the habitual lifestyle we’d created over a year, and find comfort in things being just so.

i like normalcy.

i’m comfortable with mediocrity.

i’m not intimidated by routine.

i don’t need extravagance, or new adventures every single day. of course i’m curious about how the air smells in europe, or how many pina coladas i can shove into my face for free in the carribean. i’ll always crave new experiencesand incredible stories, and adding push-pins to the destinations i’ve been to, on the map in my heart.

who doesn’t ache for that?

but until those things can happen, i just need someone who’ll love me the way i love them- comfortably, and whole-heartedly, and honestly.

and while brad did love me in a certain way, and take care of me, and make me feel like the greatest part of his life… there were so many little important pieces to a relationship that had been lost between us along the way. maybe we waited so many years to finally be together, that a lot of that passion had dwindled. and while i whole-heartedly adore everything about him that makes him who he is… in loving him, i was loving less of myself. i was settling for a relationship that didn’t make my heart burst the way i know it needs to.

i don’t have any regrets. we needed to finally give us a shot to figure out if it was worth doing. and while i am still struggling to learn how to be his best friend again, struggling to learn to say our hellos and goodbyes that don’t end so awkwardly… i am reminding myself how lucky i am to have a friend like him in my life. a friend who will drop anything he is doing, if i need him by my side. someone who will hold me when i’m sad, or comfort me when i am having panic attacks. a friend who knows my moods, the tone of my voice, and that when i say “i’m fine”, i actually mean “you’re being a prick and i fucking hate you, right now”. because i need that- the comfort of a male figure like him who loves me with without trying, and who gets me without forcing it.

it won’t be easy.

we can both be incredibly jealous, and selfish when it comes to each other. but at least now we know our timing is off, and we’ll need to move forward without the title of boyfriend/girlfriend, to figure out what we want, and who we want to be, and what is best for each of us- together, or apart.

my backwards walk

Posted on by

3

i don’t want be a bad woman
and i can’t stand to see you be a bad man. 
i will miss your heart so tender
and I will love this love forever.
- cat power

when i left m for the last time, i had this song on repeat for hours, and days, and months.

…it was my anthem. my reason. the only explanation i could justify in finally separating myself from the only life i knew. everything he touched turned to shit. he made me a bad woman by proxy. by the end of the four (worst) years (of my life), i didn’t recognize myself anymore. my family could barely speak to me, and i had severed ties with so many friends only so i could keep my secrets to myself. so i wouldn’t have to explain the bruises, or the holes in the wall, or the destroyed belongings, or why i felt like drinking every single fucking day. it wasn’t only to numb the pain, or to forget. i drank because when i was drunk, i felt alive- something i hadn’t felt in years. it was superficial, of course… but i felt it none the less. i was social, and i laughed, and i would dance, and i made friends, and broke hearts, and i would exude confidence that had been shattered by m.

when i met him, i thought i had fallen in love with my future husband. the man who was going to father my children, and make me breakfast in bed on mother’s day, and spend time with my family, and take care of me when i was ill. i thought our story would stand out, not because of its horror, but because of its beauty. its simplicity. i thought it would stand out because it was special. and it was- at first. it was all of those things, and so much more than i could possibly explain.

i was barely sixteen years old when i saw his darkeyes, and cotton candy pink lips for the first time. he was waiting for a bus, and our eyes locked for a few seconds, and i felt the wind get knocked out of my lungs. this man (so young then) was so quiet- leaning against a wall, smoking cigarettes, his entire body covered in tattoos. my heart stopped, and my palms got sweaty, and i had made up my mind- right then and there- that i was going to have this man. it was a feeling so fierce, i could barely shake it.

our paths didn’t cross for another five months.

and it was the end of my life as i knew it.

had i known then, what i knew now- i’d have trusted my gut.

… but i’m a heart girl, through and through, and although it’s been wrong (time and time again), i followed this coffee-haired, black-eyed, beautiful (so goddamn beautiful) stranger. we followed each other at a party- watching each other from the corner of our eyes, touching hands when we spoke, whispering into each others ears over the music. he had a mohawk, and i could taste the vodka on his tongue when we kissed that night.

that’s how i like to remember him, unfortunately. pure, and young, and gentle. the way he would hold my hand, or touch my lower back when we spoke, or the way he would kiss me- all day, every day. the first time he’d see me, and between sentences, before leaving. he’d kiss my mouth, and my forehead, and my hands, and my eyes. he’d kiss me just to kiss me. his voice, so sweet and so low- almost a whisper. and we made love, believe it or not. he would light dozens of candles in the basement, and we’d kiss every inch of each others’ body. we’d touch and take our time, and really love each other. he’s the only person i’ve ever done that with, actually. he’d drive me home, late at night… holding hands, and kissing at stop lights. he would run my baths, and make me breakfast in bed all the time. he would wash my hair in the shower, and take pictures of me all the time. he’d leave love notes by the bed, and he’d draw me pictures, and write me letters. he’d buy me cards- just because. he would tell me he loved me every single day. we’d lay on the beach in silence, for hours. we’d take walks, and shower together every morning.

he loved me…

a lot. he loved me harder, and stronger, and better than any man has ever loved me in my life. without question, or condition, or doubt. he lived for me- he told me every day that he lived for me. it’s difficult to be loved like that, so young in your life. to be sixteen years old and feel like i knew what the next fifty years of my life would look like- that i’d be this lucky in love for the rest of my life… and then have it ripped from me.

he changed over night.

i look back now… i dig deep for signs, or red flags. and i just can’t find them anywhere. i look back on the first year of our relationship, and i am shattered by confusion. this man- this young, incredible man who loved me, and cared for me, and took care of me every single day… he woke up one morning hating me. hating our life. hating the simplicity of our love and companionship. he woke up fiending for drugs, and wanting to fuck strangers, and taking out his aggressions on me- the only woman who loved him the way i loved him. and that struck me harder than his fist ever did- the way his heart loved me still, but his actions didn’t. the things he would say to me… i can’t even wrap my head around it sometimes.

just the thought of our bed
makes me crumble like the plaster
where you punched the wall beside my head
- ani difranco

i stayed for three years longer than i should have.

out of fear, out of survival, out of naivety and guilt. and when i finally left, i never mourned the loss. i celebrated the victory. after a few weeks of drinking myself to sleep, forgetting to eat and shower, and not even stepping foot outside of my own bed… after weeks of anguish and fear, i finally celebrated. i celebrated for days, and then weeks, and months, and years. i spent so much time being angry, that i forgot to be sad. i spent so many years celebrating the funeral of a monster, of the demon that was our poisonous relationship… that i forgot to feel pain and sadness over the loss of the year i’d spent with the m who loved me. i forgot to mourn the loss of my first love. the loss of the baby we almost had together. the loss of the life we’d started to build. the loss of my dignity, and self-respect, and confidence- things i am still working on, years later… trying desperately to rebuild.

i don’t know why it’s surfacing now- why all this pain has boiled over, and why i feel disconnected again. i don’t know why i feel the need to mourn now that i am finally safe, and happy, and healthy- trying to put my pieces back together after being derailed. but it’s happening and i can’t control it anymore. i can’t help but feel angry that my first love was lost, and that i’ll never have anything good to say about him. i can’t help resenting him. i can’t help resenting myself and the decisions i made not to have our baby, or build my own life with that child- safe from her father and his demons. and don’t get me wrong- i’m happy with every choice i’ve ever made when it comes to m… i didn’t have the tools then to understand what abuse was, or how to escape it. all i knew was that i needed to save myself, and it’s only when i was finally ready to be without him that i gathered the courage to stand up to him, and walk away forever.

and it makes me sick, you know… to feel sad over this. to miss (the beginning of) that love.

but now that the shock has worn off, and the anger has subsided… i’m left with this incredible sadness, and self-pity. i’m overwhelmed by anxiety and confusion. and i never want this space to be censored. i hope writing about m won’t ever stop feeling cathartic… but there are some stories i’ve burried so deep inside of me- certains things i’ve never had the courage to share, or the words to even describe things that happened- and i need now (more than ever) to purge those stories from inside of me. to rid them from my bones, and shove them in a metaphorical bag, and then set that bag on fire. i need to share my truths with a professional, so i can get some closure, finally.

real closure- not the kind where i tell everyone i’m okay, and i belittle him as a human being, and share his indecensies… i mean real closure, and healing, and finally closing a book that has been open for seven goddamn years. and i realise that a lot of my behaviours in life (and love) stem from surviving abuse- but i can’t let those behaviours define my relationships any longer. i can’t let my secrets dictate my happiness, or my future.

i just forget what that kind of blissful happiness feels like. i feel like i got the private screening to the unatural, disturbing ways of the human race, and i’m rattled. i’ve seen too much, and i’ve felt too much, and i know too fucking much about what it feels like to be torn apart at the hands of a bad man. and that makes me incredibly, and unforgivingly sad…

and i want to fix that.

poke out my iris; why can’t i cry about this?

Posted on by

6

i’ve been at battle with personal demons.

sometimes i feel like the feelings in my heart, and the voices in my head are at constant battle with me. like they are the popular girls at some big, private school in the suburbs, and they hate my loafers and over-grown bangs. they bully me because i’m too short, and my eyes are sad, and my hair is too dark. and i’ve forgotten how to cry.

sometimes i feel so hurt… and all i can do is sit on the edge of my bed waiting for these emotions to take over me- i’m waiting for tears to well up in my eyes, or for my lip to start quivering, but all i even know how to do anymore is sit- back hunched over, pouting like a child, and angry (so fucking angry) that i have to wait for something other than this dull ache in the middle of my chest to make me feel real again.

this feeling is not in my gut, like when you’re sad and you want to throw up and crawl under your blankets. and not in my throat, like when you’re on the verge of tears, and you have your mother’s phone number on speed dial because you know you can always call the woman who gave you birth and know she’ll sit on the other end and listen to your breathing, and let the sound of your tears falling onto the receiver take over, because sometimes you just need to fucking call your mom and cry, and cry, and cry. and she lets you. she lets you like no one else lets you. and that’s important.

but sometimes there’s this ache in the middle of your chest. and it hurts when you breathe, and it hurts when you realize you’re still breathing, and it hurts even when it’s not hurting. and how do you call your mother and tell her that your life is falling into place, finally… but the only thing you can do is lay on your back, over your covers (your favourite covers) and stare at the dumb popcorn ceiling you hate, and you narrow your eyes on that little speckle of olive green paint you carelessly (accidentally) got on your stupid ceiling when you were painting one sunday afternoon- drunk off four cans of PBR, and shaking your butt in your yoga pants to some of your favourite new order song.

fuck, that seems like forever ago.

how do you tell your mother everything on the outside is beautiful, but everything inside of you feels like a thick black sludge, and you’re drowning in the quicksand of your own sorrow?

i hadn’t felt loved (really loved) in so long. but when he’d spin my favourite records (just for me), or spend hours making up incredible recipes (just for me), or i’d come home to the smell of bleach and lemons, because he’d spent his only day off on his hands and knees, scrubbing the tub and cleaning the kitchen floors (just for me- and also, totally for himself)… those little things made me feel so important. like he had a zillion choices he could make in a day, and every single one he made, he made to see me smile. because he knew, in the bottom of his heart, that the woman he loved was the saddest girl on the planet.

and he was right, you know.

i am horribly selfish, and painfully lost, and i can’t shake this sadness from my insides.

sometimes i place my palm on my chest just to feel the boom-boom of my own heartbeat to remind myself that i really am here, and this really is my reality, and i better buck up and make the best of it, because i really don’t have many other options at this point.

i feel so guilty. i am so blessed, and so lucky, and i worry that my mother will start to read between the lines, and she’ll see a sadness and a darkness, and she’ll feel the pain i’m living every day, and she’ll blame herself. and i’d die. i would die if my mother ever felt like she’d failed me because of the chemical inbalance in my brain. like her hugs weren’t strong enough, or like the love inside of her wasn’t enough to keep me happy.

that would kill me.

because she has the best hugs of anyone i’ve ever met. her neck always smells the same, and her cheeks are rosy and soft- like peaches in the summer. and her hands… i’ve never loved anyone’s hands the way i love my mother’s hands- strong, and weathered, and perfectly manicured, and so fucking feminine. lined with expensive rings with big stones, and always fresh smelling- like coriander and olive oil. and she’s the most soft-spoken woman i’ve ever known.

sometimes i picture her with hair white like snow, and wrinkles beside her eyes, and i fall more in love with her than i ever thought i could. like she’s this perfect creature with a heart the size of texas, and the colour of a fire truck, and it’s almost as if she’s aging backwards. like her hair is getting blonder, and her smile is getting more genuine with every birthday candle i add onto the cakes i bake her from scratch. and all i can think about is how i hope i can be that beautiful someday- carelessly, and without even trying. innocent, and light.

—

i’m a dweller.

i dwell on things.

i resent people. i hold grudges. i relive painful memories. fool me once, shame on me… fool me twice, i’ll fucking kill you.

maybe it’s a pride thing. maybe i enjoy the feeling of having the upper hand. maybe i like to fucking win, and i’m so sick of hurting, that i’ll do anything in my power to avoid conflict, or painful situations, or loss. i have too much love inside of me, and i get angry when it has nowhere to go. i build walls, and retract, and every new fucking day, is another 24 hours of self preservation.

people tried to help me for years, and i whole-heartedly refused every single gracious offer because i had too much damn pride to seek help for the sadness in my heart. i never got the help i needed when i was desperate, or scared, or alone. i never told anyone when my life was at risk, or the darkness got too heavy, and i certainly never told anyone about what happened. about everything that happened. i burried all of those nightmares and memories into this tiny little ventricle in the red of my heart, and i tried (for years, now) to forget. but sometimes i lay alone in my bedroom at night, and that little drawer is so close to bursting at the seams and i suffocate. i’m paralyzed by these memories (that don’t always feel like my own). and while a big part of me wants to cradle my frail little limbs, and whisper in my own ear and assure myself that i’ll be okay, the other part of me wants to shake me by the shoulders, slap me across the hardest part of my cheek, and tell myself to fucking get over it. to fucking stand tall, and be alert, and always be strong.

be the kind of woman other women envy, for fuck’s sake.

eat well, and play hard, and kiss with your eyes closed, and play. wear lipstick, and go dancing, and buy shoes you can’t really walk in, and excel at your job. laugh, always. smile constantly. be friendly, and make strangers fall in love with you. be charming, stay humble, be gentle. give without the expectation of getting anything in return. show some cleavage. read books, be interesting, cook for your man. take bubble baths, and paint your toe nails to match your finger nails, and shave your legs. listen to music that makes you shake your ass, and shake that ass. be proud of your body. be proud of its imperfections, and its dimples, and tell yourself you’re beautiful. because you are.

you are so fucking beautiful.

genetics made it so my hips are big, my eyes are brown, and my brain is scrambled.

but that other stuff? the things i can control, and the things i can alter and change and do to make this darkness less heavy? those are things i need to do for myself. those are the things i need to focus on to make me feel good, as a person, and as a woman, and as a timid, sad little girl stuck inside this explosive firecracker of a human being.

so set out to do the same… because i sure as hell can’t do this alone.

rattling through

Posted on by

2

i’ve recently started off each day with a good cry.

i don’t mean good in the sense that it feels better once i do it. i mean a good, strong, ugly, big, fat cry so i can put on my pants without sobbing. or leave the house without having a panic attack. or burst into tears when i’m feeling avocados for ripeness in the produce aisle at the grocery store.

because i’ve done all of that already this week. and i’m at a point now, where i know i need to let out at least some of those tears before i even attempt to put on makeup, or meet a friend for coffee- because if i don’t get it out of my system, it has a tendency to creep up on me when i least expect it. and the last thing i need right now, is for the homeless people on the busiest street in my city neighbourhood to look at me like i’m a fucking lunatic.

even though i feel like a fucking lunatic.

i’m hurting.

and it’s not the icky kind of hurt you get after a boy leaves you, or the kind  that stings your skin- like a scrape.

it’s the kind that swallows your insides whole. the kind of pain that sucker-punches you in the gut when you’re already down. the kind that knocks your head into the wall when you already have a migraine. the kind that makes you feel like you’re about to throw up, and you shiver every time you’re forced to keep it down. it’s a pain so real, so dark, so fucking consuming that it hurts to swing my legs over the side of my bed, so i can stand up and start my day. because i already know the worst part of every day is realizing i’ll have to sleep only to wake up at some point and start over again. hour, after hour, after day, after week.

i’ve been without work for seven months. i’ve been without love, and stability, and confidence, and comfort, and money for equally as long. i hadn’t a real clue as to what that kind of lack, or loss could do to a person. i used to envy this life. envy a life of sleep and irresponsibility and carelessness and freedom.

but now i just feel broken.

and how cliché is that?

i’ve spent all of this time putting on some sort of show, but the curtain inevitably closed, and the walls finally caved in, and when everyone had eventually left the theatre, there wasn’t anyone left to save me. i can’t remember ever feeling so helpless. and for the first time i’m crying out for someone to reach down, grab my hand, and pull me from the darkness… but i don’t feel any better. in fact i only feel worse when i admit defeat when i’m still living it.

i know i’ll pull through.

the way i pulled through countless times before this.

it’s just really hard to see the light at the end of the tunnel when i feel this fucking trapped.

 

 

coast starlight

Posted on by

2

tomorrow morning you’ll be boarding a twelve hour train ride from san francisco, to los angeles to carry on with your journey. while part of me knows this means you’re inching closer to getting onto a plane back to our chilly canadian city, it has the other part of me conflicted.

i googled pictures of the coast starlight. of the beautiful scenery you’ll get to soak in; this extraordinary gift you’re giving yourself. and while i am thrilled for you, i couldn’t help but sift through these images and be jealous. and then angry. and then unbelievably sad. maybe it’s because i know i am a nervous traveler, and it would kill me not to experience such beauty with someone i love. or maybe it’s because i resent you for leaving me -this- to set off on these adventures by yourself.

i know it isn’t the case.

but the longer you are gone, the angrier i am getting.

the less patience i have.

i’ve waited for you- my god, i have fucking waited.

and the night before you left, i wrote you a long-winded letter. it’s a few pages long, and i wrote it in pen, and it fucking rhymes. i was clutching it between my little fingers on the car ride to the airport, and my heart was pounding so loud in my chest i could barely hear anything you were saying. i was fighting back the tears, and looking out the window. and every time i caught you looking at me- at my hands, in my eyes… i felt smaller, and smaller. like nothing i could possibly do even mattered, because you were going to get out of that car, and throw your duffel bag over your shoulder, hug me long and hard one last time, and then you were going to get on that stupid plane.

i breathed you in one last time- your t-shirt smelling of my laundry detergent, your hair smelling of my products, and your neck smelling like you always have (safe, comforting), and i crumpled up the letter in my hand, and let you walk away without giving it to you.

you’re not really a “letter” kind of guy, anyway.

that’s where i question things.

i let you see me all snotty, and sick. you let me sleep for days in your bed when i was too ill to make it home. you throw me over your shoulder, and put me in the cart at the grocery store and help me with my groceries when i am too injured to walk. you stay up all night watching our favourite shows and making me laugh, and scratching my head til i fall asleep… you give me fresh produce from your fridge, hang all your clothes in my closet, and take me to dinner regularly. you have clearly become one of the most important people in my life, and yet i didn’t have the courage to give you my shitty, rhyming love letter.

the way i feel about you hasn’t changed in the least. it’s just that i am beginning to question how long i can idly sit by and watch my life happen, while you’re away. i can’t promise that i haven’t fallen for someone else, or let my heart wander. i can’t promise that i haven’t kissed his lips and felt everything inside of me go to mush. and i can’t promise that when he smiles at me, that i don’t feel it in the pit of my stomach, either. i am only human, and you need to understand that while i whole-heartedly love everything about you, everything that makes you who you are… i can’t help but worry that my feelings aren’t being looked out for. and although a part of me wants to crawl under my covers, cry, and wait for you to come home, a bigger part of me wants independence. and freedom. and love.

i want love, okay?

and you know what never fucking worked for me?

hope.

i can’t just hope you’ll want me when you come home- and i’m really beginning to question whether my heart could even handle rejection from you. i’m not sure i’ve prepared myself enough to put myself in that kind of position.

- an excerpt from the letter

i can still fill my days trying- because i’m yours from the bottom to the top, and i’m not just saying i’ll be here for you, i’m saying i‘ll never stop.

 

and you know what hurts the most?

that i just might stop.

this modern love

Posted on by

8

i’ve been away from the internet for months, and one of the first blogs i looked up was a friend‘s, and this is the quote i read:

“How lucky I am, to have something
that makes saying goodbye so hard.”
– A. A. Milne

how fitting.

four hours ago my favourite person in the world boarded a plane to california, and my world stopped spinning on its axis. i spent every single night falling asleep next to him for months, and now i can’t even fathom how i could close my eyes knowing i won’t wake up to him. i woke up before him this morning, narrowed my eyes on my favourite parts of him- his jawline and how it connects to the softest part of his neck, the freckles on his back and how i could connect the dots from memory, his perfectly manicured fingertips and the way they clutched his naked chest in his sleep.

it’s weird you know… to invest yourself so much emotionally in someone you don’t even get to kiss goodnight, or hold hands with in the car. i can’t count the amount of times i wanted to wrap my hand around his, as he tapped the stick shift to the beat of his favourite songs. i’d casually glance over at him, cruising down the city streets, and i’d be completely caught off-guard by how handsome he was. he had these really intense moments of blue-eyed beauty and it felt like i was getting sucker-punched in the gut when he’d look back at me, and shoot me a quirky half-smile.

it knocked the wind right out of my lungs.

he winked at me once when i was eighteen years old, and i haven’t picked my heart up from off the ground since.
you told me you wanted to eat up my sadness
well jump on, enjoy, you can gorge away
you told me you wanted to eat up my sadness
baby, you’ve got to be more discerning
I’ve never known what’s good for me
baby, you’ve got to be more demanding

what are you holding out for?
what’s always in the way?
why so damn absent-minded?
why so scared of romance?

this modern love breaks me
this modern love wastes me
- bloc party

come home.

i miss you too much already.

baby, let your heart out

Posted on by

0

i don’t mean to be so cryptic, but there are a lot of things happening right now.

i haven’t even attempted to look for work, and i have been coasting for months, now. i’m not sure how i feel about it, except that i am certainly not at peace with anything yet. it’s been frustrating because i thought i was more aware and capable of my feelings. when i finally left my job, i was in a terribly dark place. i figured the more time i had off, the easier things would start to feel, but i was horribly wrong. i have so, so, so much time alone with my thoughts- all this time alone with myself. you have to be pretty okay with yourself as a human being if you’re going to be spending weeks at a time trying to keep your body & mind busy enough not to slip back into a place you don’t want to be.

am i there yet?

i don’t think so…

but i was laying in my best friend’s bed, drinking coffee i can’t afford, listening to news stories i probably should give more of a shit about, and i said it- “i never want to fucking work again”. he laughed, as always. but i was serious. the idea of getting back into a routine, working a job that doesn’t stimulate me or make me adequately happy- it fucking terrifies me. i know this is my life, and it’s up to me to make it incredible and wonderful, but i am so stuck. i don’t have the motivation to do something remarkable. how pathetic is that?

to be fair, sobriety hasn’t been an issue. i haven’t gotten absolutely fucked up wasted in weeks, and i feel pretty proud of that. i attended my super good friends’ wedding, had a couple of drinks, danced my heart out, cried a little, and felt pretty excited about the entire event. which, hello… people are getting married, and i haven’t crawled into bed to cry for six days straight, so you know… progress, etc.

and at the break of day
after all the stars are gone away
we can get high and watch T.V.
with our big fat red hearts hangin’ down to our knees
- royal city

i have this irrational fear of change. my best friend is leaving for the winter and my heart is heavier than a ton of bricks. teeter-tottering between the weight of my insides nearly bursting at the seams, and having them shrink to the size of a penny when i think about the months i’ll spend without the one person in this world who understands absolutely every single feeling in my heart- it kills me. i hate that i won’t spend afternoons alone with him in his bedroom, just talking. i can’t begin to wrap my head around the idea of him not living down the street, not being a phone call away. i’ve let myself get too close, and i worry things will change when he leaves. i worry i’ll lose the most important bond i have with someone in my life right now. he’s my person. the person i call when i am happy, or sad, or mad, or bored, or crazy, or worried, or messy. the person i can sit next to, and feel one hundred times better just by being next to him. i’ve had to cut our hangouts short because i am overwhelmed by the lump in my throat and the way i constantly have to fight back the urge i have to cry whenever i am around him. i know he needs to go, and i want him to be happy, and healthy, and i want him to do the things that make him happy. i am just horribly selfish when it comes to loving someone, and wanting them near. i’m anticipating an ugly goodbye (a snotty, teary, horrible messy goodbye- on my behalf, obviously), but i can only hope that he’ll come back to the city with a whole heart, and hundreds of stories to tell- as he always would. and hopefully like, presents, and stuff.

i love the sound of the rain falling down
i love it when your eyes look directly into mine
- royal city

that being said, i think i have too much time on my hands- which is funny because i have been so ridiculously busy these last few days. i know things will sort themselves out, and when things are less hectic i’ll be able to enjoy things more successfully.

in the meantime though? i’ll work on my composure, and consistency.

i promise.

i think?

self worth

Posted on by

10

human skin can be hard to live in

- seabear

 

i’ve been having a hard time.

don’t get me wrong- i’ve been having an incredible summer and a hell of a good time with my friends, and family… from mexican fiesta themed bachelorette parties, to family picnics by the waterfront, to barbecues and slumber parties, and more ladies’ nights and living room dance marathons than i can even count. i have the most amazing support system- the constant emails and phone calls from my mum & pops, the text messages from my brother, the goodness in my friends’ hearts and their willingness to give and to love and to be there for me… i can’t even wrap my head around it sometimes. a friend dropped in last night to give me oral numbing gel for my tooth ache because he knew my EI money hadn’t come in yet and he couldn’t stand the idea of me sitting around, doing nothing about the pain i was in.

that’s the kind of people i have in my life.

and i am so grateful for them, for this time off, for the strength i had in myself to finally make these changes in my life.

but i am still struggling.

sometimes i have to remind myself that i’ve come a long way. that i escaped a dangerous life with an awful man and survived his abuse and our lifestyle. without a penny in my pocket, or a chance in the world- i dusted myself off, and set off to build a new, healthy life. i got an excellent job with zero experience and no education, hopped from house to house until i found a safe place to call home- all while keeping my head above water. not a single person knew of my struggles because i wouldn’t show my scars. “i am strong, i am independent, i can do this”- this is how i got myself out of bed in the mornings. i was barely eighteen years old.

and i get it, you know.

i’m an easy target.

i’m young, i have fucked up one hell of a lot, i have put my family through torture and hell, i am covered in tattoos, i struggle with money, i have been pulled from my own bed- pulled from depression and drinking, and i’ve been told to fucking smarten up and be a real human being because this life business is HARD.

despite all of the bullshit, though… at least i could always say i was capable. i was capable of a good life, with healthy people, and a nice house, with good furniture. and i had a job.

jesus christ, i had a job!

a job i could keep, a job i was good at, a job that allowed me to fully furnish the houses i’d been hoping to and from. a job that allowed me to eat, and play, and be a real adult for the first time in fucking ever.

wait, adults say “in fucking ever”, right?

whatever.

i am not struggling with the time off, or the copious amount of naps i have been allowing myself to take in the middle of the afternoon, thank you very much.

i’m struggling with the lack of income, and what that has done to my independence.

i am no charity case. and although i love surprises and dates and all that fun stuff… i don’t like when people feel obligated to pay for me. i was perfectly capable of paying for my movies, or my food, or my antibiotics, or my mothers’ birthday presents. but when i can’t participate in menu items for a cottage weekend getaway, or i have to skip out on certain activities because my bank account is at -$7.32, and i have one toonie left in my wallet, and i’m wondering how the actual fuck i’m going to eat next week because i still don’t have a clue as to when EI will come in… that scares me.

and i’m brought back to a place where i don’t like being.

to the attic apartment of 148 breezehill avenue, where i am barely seventeen, and i haven’t eaten in weeks, and my junkie boyfriend is out on a binge, fucking the girls from the shop, and leaving me to fucking die. a place where i am sitting in the corner of the living room, under a wall of broken plaster, listening to ani difranco on repeat, trying to get the courage to finally call my mother and ask her to save me.

i know that isn’t the case, anymore. but the thought of not knowing, and starting from scratch again… it scares the living shit out of me.

as for these last few days… i have to laugh off the bullshit comments about being a punk rock warrior. i have to try not to be offended when people are shocked if i turn down an opportunity to drink when the cold, wet cans are staring me straight in the face. and i have to get over this whole idea that leaving my job was a bad move. i have to shrug off the comments about my relationship with dan going down the shitter…

but here’s the thing.

fuck everyone.

(adults can say that too, right?)

yeah, fuck ‘em.

i’m not sorry.

i’m not sorry i fucked up with m. i’m not sorry for a single tattoo on my body. i’m not sorry the drinking was a problem, for years. i’m not sorry my relationship with dan ended, and he had to move out, and i’m not sorry i was still fucking him after we broke up. i’m not sorry that i’ve had moments of weakness, of desperation, of chaos, or sadness. i’m not sorry for quitting my job. i’m not sorry for being fucking human.

here’s the thing with acceptance and self-worth.

i’m fucking horrible at it.

a good friend made a joke at my expense, and how did i deal with it? i came home, took off my tights, turned off the lights, blasted daniel johnston super loud, and fucking bawled my eyes out for an hour.

ADULT LIFE!

i’m not used to this. i’m not used to dependence or zero income, or feeling this helpless. it’s awful, and it’s fucking with my head, the way it fucked with my head then. the freedom was incredible, at first. i sat in the park, blowing bubbles, drinking beer from a coffee cup, watching my friends play street frisbee at midnight, dancing until 4 in the morning, going to the beach all day, having iced green tea in summer dresses at two in the afternoon at my favourite coffee shops, drinking mimosas with breakfast, stuffing my face with pretty people at restaurants’ soft openings, chatting all afternoon on the porch…it’s been so liberating.

and now i’m all, “fuck”.

because the money is gone, and so is the glamour, et all.

along with my confidence & independence.

and so now, i wait.

for money. for an epiphany. for a job opportunity that will blow my socks off.

—

post script:

i am no longer fucking my ex-boyfriend. he returned my glasses, and i gave him back his computer, and we haven’t spoken in days, and i am feeling free and happy and strong. i know now, more than ever, that i want a future- and it most certainly isn’t with him. am i mourning the loss of my best friend in the entire world? hell yes. will i get over it? totally.

on, and up.