And we’ll all be, portions for foxes.
I know, I know, I’m sorry. Life has been insane, and one day I’ll post all about it, but to tide you over until then, here’s some lil questions about moi.
Do you have any pets?
Not at this moment. I love, love pets, I’m just rather poor. But with my roomates pets technically in this house there is a cat, a scorpion and a bunch of Indian Stick Bugs.
What was the last book you read?
Hmm, well right now I’m reading The Help. Before that however I read The Lace Reader.
Do you like to cook?
Yes. My friends actually joke about me being the ‘Mom’ of the group because I’m always feeding everyone.
What’s your favorite food?
You know, I hate this question. I have a ton of favorite foods. Pasta, Seafood, Chocolate, Mexican, Indian, I’m a fan of food. Don’t make me choose.
Do you have brothers and sisters?
I do. I have one sister, she’s seven years older than me and her name is Ashley. This is her on her wedding day:
Which sport do you like?
How presumptuous of you to assume I like sports.The only sport I’m actually into is Roller Derby.
Do you live alone?
Negative. I live with two guy friends about the same age.
Do you live in a house or an apartment?
Apartment. Woot.
Have you ever lived in another country?
Not yet. Though I plan to, absolutly.
Have you ever met a famous person?
Yes. Lots of getting-known people, but I’d have to say the most famous person I’ve met was Susan Aglukark.
How do you spend your free time?
Writing, walking, hanging out with my GF, looking at pictures and videos of my nephew missing him terribly, painting, reading.
Tell me about a favorite event of your adulthood.
My Dad refered to me as an adult a couple weekends ago, so I guess it’s legit after all. My favorite event so far of being an adult, would probably be holding my nephew for the first time, or the Tegan and Sara concert I went to in September.
Tell me about a favorite event of your childhood.
All of them. I can’t pick one moment or day or event that surpassed others in awesomeness.
What do you do on Sundays?
Recover from Saturday night.
What do you do? What’s your job?
I have two jobs currently. I work at a tiny little pizza place as a waitress, and also at a Petland. I’m also a student.
What is your motto in life?
Stand for something or you’ll fall for anything.
Which languages do you speak?
English. I’m learning sign language, and I’d love to learn Spanish, Swahili, and I’m sure there’s more.
What are you best at?
Taking care of people. In many different ways.
Who has had the most influence in your life?
I was going to say my sister, and then a couple of my counselors, but actually I think it’s my nephew, Hudson. He’s only a year old but he’s made me change my life and smarten up. More than anyone else. Yet my sister has been there and done a lot for me, including giving me him, so, probably her.
Would you like to be famous?
Maybe. But only in certain ways. I’d like be be a decent and published author. Or known for journalism, or humanitarian work. I don’t want to be stupid rich and have a shit load of attention, no.
What do you think you will be doing five years from now?
In five years I hope to be finishing up school, paying off debts, traveling the world, helping however I can, getting married and having babies.
Are you a ‘morning’ or ‘night’ person?
Complete night owl.
How many times did you move as a child?
Never, thankfully.
What kind of woman/man would you like to marry?
The woman I want to marry is someone kind, funny, family oriented, humanitarian, who shares the same core values as me.
If you could live anywhere in the world for a year, where would it be?
That’s tough. I’d love to live in San Francisco for a while, Scotland, South America, Spain, Greece, Africa. Anywhere. I’d go anywhere, I just wanna see the world,
If you knew could you try anything and not fail, what dream would you attempt?
I’d love to, and plan to, and would die to, adopt a sibling group from somewhere in Africa.
Would you live with someone without marrying them?
Of course. Absolutly.
Would you rather take pictures or be in pictures?
I’d rather take pictures, I love photography.
Are you a beach, country or city person?
D) All of the above.
Where do you spend most of your money?
At the grocerie store 
I’m too poor to do much else.
Alright there you have it. I’m sorry, I’ll start updating more, I just have to get my life back together.
And who are you now? Who were you then?
I imagine a lily,
growing, sprouting, thriving,
through the cracks in my heart.
Living off my pain, survivng on my guilt.
So beautiful, so pure,
Nothing more real than a heart.
Nothing more real than a crack.
A sliver,
A slice,
A piece,
Missing.
Broken.
Gone.
Tears, dripping, constant,
A faucet from my soul,
Watering my lily.
Day by day.
Growing, expanding,
Gaining strength.
Gaining life,
With its roots soaking up the blood,
Soaking up the pain,
Soaking up the guilt.
Soaking up the past.
Removing what was,
Leaving what is.
My lily. My heart.
Beautiful.
Broken.
I appologize for not blogging, I’ve been growing my lily.
Firstly, let me say, I know I failed at my blog a week, and I’m sorry. Things have been really crazy around here. There’s a few things I want to talk about, but they all, and I mean all take the backseat to what happened to me on saturday.
There are people in your life who come into it with the sole purpose to change it, ‘fix’ it, save it. People who you don’t ask for but fall into your lap and suddenly make the weight on your shoulders seem a little, lighter. I’ve met a couple of these people, and I’m grateful for each of them. But none, no one in this word compares even slightly to Nicole.
Nicole was one of my counselors in high school. But she was so, so much more than that. She was the first person to really listen to me. She was the first person that made me feel…. not real, but, truly important. Worthy, useful, like I had potential.
She would sit with me, for hours, every single day, as I cried, and stared at a wall, and then talked myself in, out, down, around, above, beside, within, towards, behind, and into my depression. She would always make time for me, no matter how busy she was, no matter what I needed, or wanted. The very first time I went to a doctor about being depressed I was 16. And she went with me. I sat there and told the doctor I believed I was depressed. He told me that I was 16. That I should talk to my parents more, because if his 16 year old son had gone to some doctor about this instead of talking to him, that he would be furious, and that I was disrespecting my parents. Nicole stood up and told him that I was right. That I was depressed and that he should recognize it, because family doesn’t solve everything. Then we walked out, and set up an appointment with another doctor, who did believe me. She stood by me.
After two years of seeing her, one regular december day, she told me something that shook my world. She was moving. In two weeks. To England. For those of you unaware, I live in Canada. Heartbroken doesn’t come close to explaining how I felt. So, two weeks later, bought her flowers, and chocolates, and a little teddy bear to bring on the plane, and I said goodbye. I watched her walk away, with her black pants and her lime green sweater, and I cried as I knew that I would never see her again, the woman that taught me so much about myself, and the world.
I missed her so much, it hurt. There were days when all I wanted was to see her. Curl up in her office and feel her warm presence letting me know, somehow, that it would all be okay. I would have given anything to see her again. And I always thought I did. I’d see a shorter woman with curly black hair and my heart would thump. For years I’d search for her, silently, unconsciously.
On saturday, like any other saturday, I worked. And I was hanging out behind the till, talking with Asia, when I saw someone, with curly black hair, checking out discount books. My heart raced, my face got red, I panicked. I looked her up and down, walked around the till until I could see her face. Nicole. In my book store. For real.
After several minutes of freaking out, I talked to her. We talked about school, about England, about her life now, about my working full-time at the book store. It was brief, it was casual, but it was real. I don’t know if it’s a sign that everything is going to be okay, I don’t know if it’s coincidence, but I saw her, and all at once I felt like everything changed again. I was 16 years old again and she was the only one I trusted. And I saw her, and talked to her, and for a moment, I felt like everything was perfect.
There’s a shortcut down the beaten path.
The first step towards getting somewhere is to decide that you are not going to stay where you are.
I’ve made a decision recently. A decision I was terrified to make. A decision that cost me many of my “in case of panic attack, take one” pills. A big decision. I stressed for weeks about this, then very concentratedly stressed over for a solid few days. Much crying, worrying, anger, sadness, fear, hope, and uncertainty went into this decision.
When I make a decision, I always tell people, “Meh, I’ll figure it out.” And I always do. I’ll think, I’ll stress, I’ll worry, and then one day, usually several days later, it will hit me. Not very hard, it’s just a small wave of calmness that washes over me and leaves behind this little voice inside my head saying, “Ok, this is what I’ll do”. That happened to me today.
I walked into work, saw some homies hanging out by the counter, talking shop, just kidding, they were talking about anime. Anyways, I didn’t really want to go to work today, I was having a tired and off day, quite frankly I was being a bitch to the world, and I didn’t feel like working. But of course I went, and when I got there it was pleasant. I popped my 10, 736 chocolate from the basket in the back, put on some Lily Come Down and suddenly I felt like I was home again. I started ranting with Kim M, and then started joking with a regular, whom I love even though he talks far too much. And I looked at the schedule. And I pulled out a calculator, and I talked to Randy-Pants, and got him to do some math for me. And I made my decision.
I’m taking the semester off.
You see, there’s this little thing my University has, I’m sure yours has it to, it’s called Academic Probation. You drop below a certain GPA, you have X amount of time to get off it, and if you can’t get your GPA above that number in said amount of time, you’re essentially kicked out of the school. In my schools case, for three semesters. Then you can re-apply. Or of course you can appeal the decision to remove you from the school. I would have been off of AP this semester no problem, except that I failed my spanish class. Now, I’m in the middle of receiving a medical withdrawal from my spanish class because half way through the semester I started having such bad panic attacks that I physically could not go to my class anymore. But since I didn’t have all the paperwork in before the semester ended (which I’d like it to be noted that it was not my procrastination that caused this, it was several other people’s) I successfully failed to get off AP in the amount of time they allotted, causing them to call me on Christmas Eve and tell me that I’d been un-registered in my classes, would no longer be allowed to attend classes, and my student loan had been canceled.
What this all means is that, tomorrow when all my friends go back to school, I’ll be going to the bank to pay off my Visa, and then hopefully buying some new underwear, but I wont be going to class. And two hours ago when my $3000 student loan was supposed to be deposited into my bank, it wasn’t. Right now, technically, I’m not a university student. I’m just a 19 year old failure. Before you think I’m sticking myself in the pity box, read on, that’s not where this post is headed.
For the last few years I’ve been enrolled in university building credits toward an admission to the Social Work program. I needed 60 credits, 2 full years, 3-4 part-time years, of credits to even apply for the program. So for the past two and a half years I’ve been taking random classes to make these requirements. Mostly gender studies, which I love, a few english, some psychology and anthropology, both of which were terrible ideas. And more recently a media studies class. My sister has asked me many times what I’m doing, because frankly, I’m sitting on 40 grande in debt, and I’m not really doing much in school. I get alright grades, they’re nothing to brag about, they’re nothing to be ashamed of. They’re average. Slightly below, or I wouldn’t be in this predicament. They’re shitty because I paid shit attention. I took what I wanted, and I ran with it. And I left the rest behind. I found it hard to give a shit about so many things being shoved down my throat, and I fell madly in love with other things. I love school, I love knowledge, I love learning, but I wasn’t passionate about it anymore. I wasn’t in love with my classes, my teachers, my papers. It was something to do because it was what I thought I had to do.
Over the summer I moved home, I spent a lot of time thinking, day dreaming, plotting, planning, hoping, dreaming. Partly because I was peaceful, partly because there’s not much else to do in my home town. And I did a lot of thinking about what I want from my life. And I decided that right now, though I’m passionate about it, social work would be a bad idea. I’m not emotionally mature enough to separate myself from the people and I’d be burnt out in no time, and I’d crack. And I’m very grateful that I’m self-aware enough to know this now. Though I’m passionate about helping others, this is not the way for me to do it, not right now. Then I started thinking about other things I love, I want. I’m a writer. I always have been. I love art, I love photography, I love writing, I love helping people, I love media(I also hate media, but that’s for another time) And I thought more about going into journalism. Working for a magazine would make my life complete. A newspaper, maybe, but thinking about working for a magazine makes me all tingly inside, as if I’m headed in the right direction. I’d love to work for something like National Geographic, something real, with substance. I’m not into Cosmo, and Vogue, and all that beauty-fake-awful-hatred-spreading bullshit(that’s the media I hate) but something that spreads the truth, something that raises awareness, something that encourages self-esteem and self-expression, those are things I could get into.
That’s when I found the New Media Communications Design program at the college. It’s got a lot of stuff I’m weary of, some computer stuff, some digital art stuff, but there are courses on writing, publishing, web design, things I could do, things I love. It’s a two year course, and since it’s at the college it’s a fraction of what I’d pay at the university, not to mention these courses aren’t offered there anyways. So I decided that I’d apply to that for Sept 2011. But that I’d go to school this year anyways, building credits that will hopefully transfer, but mostly, honestly, for the student loan money.
When student loans decided to short me 4 grand, that’s when I had to get a job, and lucked out in the biggest, most incredible way, and got a job at my favorite place in town, and lately I’ve been getting a lot of hours. Enough hours.
So, when my decision hit me today, and I got help with my math, and discovered that I can do this. I can take a semester off and I can live. IF and this is a HUGE part of my choice, and my decision. IF my hours at work stay what they are, or increase, I can do this. I will make enough money to pay my rent, my phone bill, afford food, and a little fun, and hopefully even put some money away. I was terrified to fully support myself. Terrified. But, now, I’m excited. If I work what I’m set now, I have four days off, essentially, with one three hour shift in there. That’s a lot of free time for reading, writing, living. But still enough money to live, comfortably impoverished.
I’m nervous, of course. If I can’t get enough hours, I don’t have any loan money to fall back on, and my grandfather will lend me whatever money I need ONLY if I’m in school, so I will literally be on my own. That scares the shit out of me. But there’s another part of me, this small, but loud part of myself, screaming, “Let’s do it”. This is the same part of me that insists I start hip-hop classes, join roller derby, get another tattoo, continue stretching my ears, and throw out all my clothes and re-build myself, into the person I want to be. This is the girl that even on my darkest of days insists, ever so quietly, that I’m going to be ok, that I’m going to do big things, because there is one thing I know for sure and for certain about myself, and that’s that I am determined. To an annoying point. No matter how weak I feel, how much I’m being judged, or looked down upon, that girl always mutters something about showing the world one day, just how far I’ll go. Imma do big things, and all that nonsense.
So, final summation, I’m terrified, and excited. I might be able to do this, it’s going to be an adventure full of personal growth and honestly, if I can pull this off, if I can do this, maybe I’ll start believing in myself again. Maybe I’ll start living my dreams instead of burying them in the future.
If you have any sort of decent taste in music you’ll listen to that ^
P.S, Kim, I’m gonna try to find a new way to get my music out there, I know how much the lil box over yonder —> annoys you.
Post a Week
I’m sure none of you are aware, but a couple of weeks ago I challenged a friend and colleague of mine, Kim, to blog once a week. To keep us both motivated sort of thing. Well she accepted of course, and then showed me that WordPress actually challenged, or rather suggested, to all its bloggers that we post more. So, they suggested once a week or once a day. I doubt I’ll be able to blog once a day, but I could definitely try to blog once a week. No, I will blog at least once a week. So, here goes. Challenge accepted, WordPress.
Where are the pieces?
I came home expecting him to greet me at the door,
But he wasn’t there.
I walked through the living room expecting him by the fire,
But he wasn’t there.
I saw a shadow move across the wall,
But he wasn’t there.
I sat on the bed, careful not to touch his side,
But he wasn’t there.
I opened the front door to call him in,
But he wasn’t there.
About ten years ago, our first family dog, Tanner, died. Right away we went to the shelter and got another dog. He was eleven months old, big, had too much skin and a very sad look on his face. He was about to be put down, so, we took him home.
He hated me at first. He would growl at me, try to act like he would bite me. But I would sit with him anyways. And after a little while, he got used to me, and he started to love me. Then we were inseparable.
For the last ten years Duke was my best friend. Cheesy, but so true. We could lay and watch tv together, walk down to the beach, though neither of us would go in the water. I used to hold items out for him when i couldn’t chose and he’d sniff them both then touch his nose to one, as if to say “Pick this one” and I would.
If he was confused, he’d cock his head to the right, and I still have a friend who does this on occasion after we spent years mocking this gesture. If he was awake his tail was wagging, and one of his ears was always flopped over, crooked, and never stood up or lay flat.
He didn’t bark unless we had company, and he never left my side.
In September, my sister called me one afternoon to tell me he hadn’t come home the night before, something he had NEVER done. He had left the yard chasing something, and never came back. All summer there were moose and bears and cougars in our neighborhood, and it could have been any one of them he was chasing out of his yard, as he always did. But this time, I think he lost.
I haven’t been home since I moved back out this summer. I wasn’t very nice to him the day I left, I pushed him out of the car and told him I’d see him later. He watched the car drive away, sad, like always. I felt slight remorse, but knew he’d be just as ecstatic to see me when I got back, that everything would be fine.
Then he died.
Now, I’m home. And everywhere I go there are pieces of him. His scratch marks against the bathroom door from the day he got locked in. His hair still woven through some of my clothes. The worn spot on the carpet in front of the fire. I keep finding pieces of him, but no matter what I do, he’s not coming home.
It’s Christmas, and I want to cuddle up next to my puppy, feel the soft spot under his chin, and hear him groan in his old age as he exhales a sigh much too big for his chest.
But he’s not here.
Merry Christmas Duke, I love you.
Moments
I’ve applied to take a Creative Writing class in January. She asked that I submit two pages of fiction. So I wrote something, and I’m sharing it with you. So, here goes.
There are moments in your life that you can never forget. Moments that burn a hole into your memory, seep their essence throughout your soul and forever linger oblivious to the passing of time. For instance the first time you hold your child, your first kiss with ‘The One’, standing atop the Eiffel tower, or saving a life, would all qualify as eternal moments. Of course they’re happy moments, and not everything unforgettable carries a smile.
Looking into your mothers eyes completely unrecognized, losing the person of your dreams, feeling the cold steel of a handgun pressed against your temple, or hearing the words that contain the worst news you’ll ever have to hear. Those are the bad moments, the moments that send a shiver up your spine and will never cease to haunt your mind.
Both sets of memories are noteworthy, and while neither is truly inevitable both are more than probable. It is safe to say, to assume, that in your life you will experience a moment more incredible, or more lurid than any before it. Never evanescing as each moment proves more important than anything contained in your previous life.
I had those moments, once. I was standing with my mother in the kitchen, laughing, drying dishes, when I heard my father’s screams coming from the next room. He’d never raised his voice in my life. I heard the glass shatter as it dropped on the counter and felt the sting as a fragment sliced across my fingertip, forever altering my personal print. A second of memory is lost before the image appears that forever stabbed its way into my memory. Her golden blond hair was carelessly strewn across her face while her body stay limp against my fathers. Feeling the ice of her skin beneath mine, being unable to breathe, to think, to scream, as the ambulance took her away. Seeing doctors frown our way as they spoke in huddles behind the glass. Knowing I’d never hear her voice again.
I guess her heart couldn’t take it, all the substance she coated her pain with as she choked it down every single day. She lost her fear of needles in favor of the liquid calm injection. I only wish I’d known about her abundance of demons, she would never have allowed me to carry even part of her burden, but just maybe I could have helped manage the agony. Maybe I would have made it worse; I’ll never get the chance to know.
After we laid her in the ground I requested solitude as I hid in her bathroom. Untouched, I could still feel her presence, smell her perfume. I found her stash in minutes, tucked behind toilet paper and clean towels. My decision was more a need than a choice. A force from within screaming for acknowledgment until I applied the option it presented, which I knew I would, there was no other way.
The window fogged from the steam of my bath, a viable distraction for a prying family. Naked, I stepped into the porcelain, aware that the water was far too hot for a bath, but perfect for the circumstances. With tact and care I disassembled the razor, piece by piece until I reached blade. One long and forceful line from wrist to elbow started the waters reddening. With one task undone I held my breath as my heart pounded with fear. The needle raped my virgin vein and the warmth spread from my blood to my soul. My eyes, weighed down by the comfort swimming through me, closed. Vaguely, a smile twitched across my lips as the serenity rocked me to sleep.
I have fought the demons, and I have won.
I found my sister.
The more you know…
http://www.cbc.ca/canada/british-columbia/story/2010/11/29/bc-northern-homicide-highway.html
I found out today that a boy I went to elementary school, and high school with, murdered someone on Saturday, very close to our hometown. The link above will explain it all. The evidence very clearly states that he did in fact do it. His tire tracks in the snow lead right to her body. She was 15, legally blind, a nice girl who liked to draw. He was 20.
Life is crazy. This world is crazy. I’ll update more if I know more. For now…..
This world is fucked.
Why so many, Why so many, Why?
One man in the corner, One man in the hall.
One man standin’ up saying, “God, save us all.”
Every winter I say the same thing. Thank god I’m not homeless. I really believe if I were homeless, during the summer I’d be alright. Probably stiff and sore, but generally, A-ok. But every time winter rears her ugly mug, I thank the god’s I don’t believe in that I have a roof, four walls, and a heater.
Where I’m from the average winter temperature is in the -20/-30′s, Celsius that is. That’s effing cold. Every once in a while my school has fund raisers, and food and clothing drives for our homeless shelters. I try to donate what I can, which is never more than pocket change I’ll admit. Which makes me sad to admit, to be honest. I’m a conscious person. I see the homeless, I try to give change, a smile, a polite acknowledgement that they are people to. Some smile back, say hello, thank-you. Some get angry and really, truly, want to be left alone. As we all do sometimes. Generally however, this is about as far as my relations go. I feel bad, I wish there was more I could do, I try to do small things when I can, but it’s never, ever enough. Of course. Things have changed a bit this year.
My girlfriend, Sam, has been a street kid. She once told me her ball park of all the nights she spent on the street probably equalled about three months. Not long, but long enough. This was long ago, in her darker days. However, she has friends, she knows people, who are street people. Many of them, actually. There’s a couple in particular who stand out. They are Jack and Tina. They have been homeless I`m fairly sure, for 5 years now. I believe Sam mentioned this was their fourth or fifth winter. They call Sam their street daughter, and she calls them her street parents.
They are middle aged, average persons. I don`t believe they`re on any drugs, but I do remember Jack saying it was hard to fall asleep without a beer. I know these people. I have sat on their bed, in their cubby between buildings where their mattress lies. Where they live their days. They are nice people, smart, funny, kind. They don`t play the victim, or point the finger of blame. They are just people, who found themselves with a less than favourable lifestyle. I`m sure they didn`t chose this, I know they didn`t, actually. But sometimes life creeps up on you.
Talking to these people, sitting with them, hugging them, learning their names as well as their faces has made me think. My social work teacher once described homelessness as being “One pay cheque away from not having a home”, well if that’s true, that’s me to. It wouldn’t take much for me to lose my house, my belongings. Sure, I’m lucky enough to have family to take me in until I get back on my feet, but if I didn’t? What would you do if suddenly you had nothing and nowhere to go? It happens everyday to a large statistic of people I don’t want to quote. Too many , that’s all I know. Too many.
There’s too many people in this world, not enough money, not enough food, not enough compassion, not enough strength. Barely enough hope. All we have is hope, a vision, a dream. I’d love to change the world. Adopt a thousand children, find a thousand cures, build a million schools, and save a million lives. I’d love to do so many things that I simply cannot do all by myself.
So I listen. And I hug. And I give what I can, when I can. And hope, believe, that one day I will be able to do more. Give more. Change more. Love more. One day I’ll adopt. One day I’ll buy jackets for a street family, make chili and hand it off to strangers, buy shoes with no holes, buy dog food and understand their need for non-judgmental companionship. One day things will be different. But today, I thought of Jack, and Tina. I hoped that Tina’s lung infection has cleared up, that she’s not growing a child in her belly, that her jacket is warm. I hoped that Jack found his beer, and got them a spot in a shelter for the winter, a shelter they wanted, not one in the ghetto that’s almost worse than being on the streets. I hoped they were alright, happy, and warm, finding food and shelter from the wind. Then I hoped the same for the rest of the world. And I shed a tear knowing that today, more people died than lived, more lost their houses than found shelter, more went without food than ate, more stayed cold than got warm, more are sad than happy.
Maybe one day…
