I hate March… or do I?

March and I have been long-standing enemies, ever since the unspeakable incidents of 2008 that I don’t need to mention again. I hate the weather, the memories, the associations, the fact that March is supposedly almost ‘spring’ and yet the last two weks in this city, there has been nothing close to spring -and all I can see around me is snow and shitty roads and gray and dark mornings. March makes me angry.

But —

Today I left the house and it was a warm wind that could only mean spring is on the horizon like a thin strip of light on the dark morning that I could just barely see on the horizon on my long, long commute to work. I was thinking about more positive memories of this month in past Marches – the ending of my teaching practicum which led to me receiving my teaching certificate; the first concert I went to with my best friend, 12 years later; spring break; coming back to outdoor running after months of leaving it (mostly) behind; and, the happiness knowing that I’ve left things behind. In lieu of new things that are on the horizon.

It’s okay now. I hope this is the last of -30, and I hope this is the last of broken hearts, or even the shreds of them. It’s still astounding how over time, wounds disappear until you scarcely notice that they’re gone.

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Nine years ago, I started a blog so that  I could write away my problems.

I did write away my problems.

I’m proud of myself that for the past nine years, even when it was minimal, even if I only dropped in one time in a month, I have written through joys, difficulties, happiness, and so on. It’s been a complicated nine years in a lot of ways and I’ve gone through so much. I’m happy I took the time to come back here.

Happy anniversary to myself. Here’s to more documentation of the struggles of my life.

If you’ve been reading, thanks for reading!

This Week in My History: October 26, 2008.

He doesn’t like me. I just spent the coldest weekend of my life (in more ways than one) with him and it was business, business, business. And then I wrapped. And that was it. Actually, it was mostly just awkward as fuck. And I hated life a lot. Then I worked on my horrendous McTaggart Award entry – GOD – I don’t stand a chance at winning that contest. There’s no POINT to my essay, no hook, no interest, it’s too dark and controversial, the style is all mixed up.. totally, totally, totally shitty, legitimately. *Sigh* and I wanted to win so badly. Because if I did, I could take him with me. That will never happen. But he kind of hates me anyway, so it doesn’t matter. I’m cold. And I’m going to bed. Because I’m tired. TWO MORE DAYS UNTIL CARDINOLOGY.

 

An “Open” Letter.

Dear So-and-Sos:

I had a dream about you last night. In my dream, I was in Jasper and I ran into you. When you saw me, you ran right up to me and hugged me and cried. You didn’t really say anything but that hug was something that even in my waking state, I can almost still feel. I haven’t dreamed about you in a while. Whenever I have, it was angry and I woke up feeling differently than I did this morning.

I was thinking about the past. I was thinking about how, when we were combative and not speaking, neither of us made an effort to reconcile. I thought about how currently, I am teaching my students the importance of “reconciliation” and that I have not ‘reconciled’, because I want some kind of upper hand, because I am still ‘angry’, I am a hypocrite. And I can’t justifiably claim that reconciliation is important to me when I haven’t actually embodied that in my life, in my former friendships, in my experiences with loss and anger.

The fact remains: I am hurt. I am hurt because I feel hard-done-by in our previous relationship. I feel like nobody ever heard me, listened to me, sided with me and really understood my life or where I was coming from. Those feelings forced me to react badly and in doing so I lost my cool. I lost a lot. I was immature and made an immature decision. And now what remains is this: I am still bitter. I don’t regret a loss of friendship. I don’t feel differently about where I would like things to be now. But, I regret being still bitter if only because I wanted to “win” and now, approaching 30 and thinking back on all of this bad blood, I have realized that “winning” really isn’t all that important.

All I want to express is this regret. And all I want to stress about this regret is: this isn’t some plea to return to how things were because I don’t want that and I’m assuming you don’t either. This isn’t an olive branch, because peace is sometimes just unnecessary, impossible, or a waste of everyone’s efforts. This isn’t me bending over backwards to please because I’ve done that too, and I’m not that person anymore. What this is, is: forgiveness. Forgiving myself because I fucked up. Forgiving you for fucking up. Not forgiveness for the purpose of rekindling some friendship that was obviously never built to last in the first place, but forgiveness so that we can move forward in life without aiming to “win”, without looking back scathingly, without saying one thing then meaning another, and most importantly: with expressing real, genuine, TRUE feelings about how we felt in this situation. Admitting that we were both vulnerable, that we both cared, that what happened was actually hurtful. Because it was. I know it, you know it, and regardless of how that pain has eased up significantly since the last time we spoke or even saw each other, pain is a part of a breakup. Pain is a part of who we became afterwards, maybe even who we became now. And admitting to that pain is also something that can help reconcile the uncertainties of the past.

It’s ridiculous that nobody ever admitted they were hurt by the utter catastrophic detonation of a 6-year best friendship, and instead all parties took a silent, bridge-burning turn towards an unfeeling desire to be “better off”. This decision is the most immature, stupid and backwards decision I’ve ever made. What I want to say to you, should you ever read this is this: all of this has fucked me up a lot. All of this has had me questioning my past, the genuineness of it, my ability to carry on a relationship, people’s true motives (including my own), and my ability to be what I define as a ‘good person’. All of this has made me feel bitter, angry, at times tearful, and griping. I lost a lot. Of self-respect, of respect for others, of trust, of self-expression. All of those things washed down the drain like toothpaste and I watched it spin and spin until it dwindled down to nothing but gross old residue of something from another time that I can barely even see or remember. And I am deeply, deeply angry about this still. I’m pissed off at how hurt I fell with absolutely no apology or acknowledgement. I’m saddened by own shying away from the emotional healing that accompanies a breakup of any kind, all because I wanted to “prove something” to you. I’m angry at all of your snide shoving-out of me, casting me aside proudly and making grand announcements about doing so on Facebook and Instagram and Twitter. I’m fucking pissed as shit that after I never spoke to you again, you never, ever, ever contacted me to try and end things with something softer and gentler than complete silence and then instead of acknowledging this privately with me, you post an INSTAGRAM with some stupid fucking quote about saying goodbye then choosing to announce in public, on an account I don’t even follow, about my life and how you feel about it. And somehow did you feel that was supposed to fix or make anything better? For you, or for me, or for anyone at all? Was it enough? After six years, was it really enough and could you really stand before me now and say that was not just supposed to be enough for me to move on but also yourself? Have you moved on? Or are you going to bother pretending like this is all 100% okay for you now because you’re better off without me and casting me aside this way was the best thing you’ve ever done? It wasn’t for me. I regret it. I messed up, and I’m willing to be vulnerable because I don’t believe anymore that vulnerability is a sign of weakness. It took me 30 years but I finally figured out that it’s okay to do things like cry in front of your boyfriend or cry when you’ve had a bad day at work. I hope you have too.

I write this letter as a plea for some reprieve from the anger and sadness that plagues me in small but tinny, biting welts in my soul that only sleep, alcohol and loved ones can make disappear. I write this letter with the hope that in some fantasy land that doesn’t actually exist in waking life, that you and I could sit down and have coffee and air all our grievances and cry and get pissed off and make all the snide and angry comments in the world but feel better after it. And I write this letter to acknowledge that fighting dirty – a cold war chocked full of silent warfare, is not the way to end anything. I hope you understand and ‘get’ where I’m coming from with this. This is how I’m feeling today. This is how I often feel. And I’m growing both comfortable with that, and aggravated by it, all at the same time.

Sincerely,

It’s Just About the Last Month of my Twenties.

I keep telling my students (who don’t believe I’m nearly 30; in fact, one of them told me the other day that if she didn’t know you had to be older to be a teacher, she would have assumed I was 19 – lucky me) that when they see me crying on a school day in October, they’ll know it’s my birthday.

Milestone birthdays bring with them this bloated weight of panic. Who will I be by the time I hit my “milestone birthday”? How much longer will it be before where I ‘should be’ and where I am are exactly the same thing? What will it feel like to hit a milestone birthday?

I can remember turning ten and my mom making this big deal about me being a ‘decade old’. It made me feel so grown up, like I was almost there. When you’re a kid, all you want to do is grow up. When you’re grown, all you want to do is be younger again. We always, always want as a species, to have whatever we don’t have. Age is finicky and it never feels complete. That’s something valuable that I guess I’ve learned this past decade.

I think my biggest growth in my life was between 24 and now. When I was 24 I made a decision to change my body, and in turn, my life. I made the decision to walk away from the guy who broke my heart, a pre-fuckboy fuckboy who had one fit in and one foot out and craved the attention that I craved giving him. I made decisions to do what I wanted and be a different person because I was given that option due to the willpower and prowess that I suddenly obtained after years of unhealthy habits, a self-pitying attitude and a crippling shyness that prevented me from having the life I wanted to have.

In my twenties, I learned that female friendships that bring out the absolute worst in you are so far from worth keeping that the only way I could move forward was abandon all memories, ties and feuds, and other things too, and both start over and look back at the real people who’d always been there for me simultaneously. It left a bitter taste, but the most crucial decisions sometimes have to be that way.

In my late twenties I met the love of my life, a man that is at the same time perfect for me, an exact opposite of me in many ways. And yet, there is something inherently common and important that we share. I can barely put my finger on exactly what it is but it comes up sometimes and reminds me of just how much I love this person and just how valuable and important he is in my life.

In my twenties I decided to have an incredibly challenging career and sometimes I regret that but sometimes I am so, so grateful for it. Every day is a struggle but not always in a bad way.

All in all, where I feel sometimes that I ‘should’ be is married with a house and a permanent job and some sort of concrete stability in my life; and what I have is nervousness about floating between jobs, concern about where I’ll land next year, and an apartment that costs a third of my income (although it’s beautiful so that’s a comfort). I still have help paying bills and I still want to spend money on trips and clothes instead of savings and investments. So am I where I ‘should’ be? No. I’m not at all. I’m selfish, irresponsible and adolescent in many ways.

I’m glad my twenties happened. I’m so glad they happened because they helped steer me into the somewhat-adult that I ended up being right now. There are so many things that I would do differently, and yet there are equally so many things that happened exactly as they should. In the mixed up world of my life, I have found a belonging place and I have found the starting point of what’s right.

I’m going to be okay. 30 will be okay.

Reflections on the Tragically Hip’s “Final” Show.

There are too many reflections on the Tragically Hip’s Kingston show. One third of Canadians watched it. So many people are tweeting, blogging and instagramming their thoughts. It was a powerful moment in Canadian’s history and one that we’ll remember forever: the moment that a band so indelibly ingrained into the consciousness and personal and collective histories of this big, gorgeous country said a final goodbye in their hometown, in front of a sold-out crowd of thousands, and aired on the CBC in front of millions.

So rarely does an artist come along that has a unique story to tell, and tells it in a way that no one else could even dare to try and duplicate. The world lacks originality, especially in the 21st century. And Gord Downie has remained completely original, right down to his sock scarf, spangled pants and Jaws shirt. The Hip’s live-on-air Kingston show demonstrated in full tour-de-force fashion, a career-spanning greatest hits collection that all Canadians could remember, relate to, and call their own. Could the United States, Great Britain, or other nations known for their own great musicians, pull this kind of intimacy off? Could anyone else unite a country this way? Only Gord Downie, a hero up there telling stories about at one time, playing to just 13 people in a room in Kingston, ON and then lauding Prime Minister Justin Trudeau as destined for greatness, especially in improving the lives and relationships with First Nations people, could pull this off. Sometimes it takes someone like Gord Downie to, like gold medal olympic hockey games, like national tragedies, like brutal internationally broadcasted winter harshness, to bring an entire nation together under one roof to mourn and celebrate and sit on the edge of our seats all at the same time.

What’s amazing about this show is more than music: it’s someone who found out he is terminally ill and decided to do what he loves, (theoretically) one final time. It’s someone who wanted to share his life one last time with his band mates, his fans, and his country. Gord Downie’s final tour serves as a reminder to, whatever you do in life, and whatever you love, do it ‘fully and completely’.

The Tragically Hip was an institution that we could always, always count on. When the Montreal Massacre occurred, there they were. When people flock to cottage country every summer, there they are. When we need to be reminded that there are no dress rehearsals because “this is our life”, there they were. When we wanted a piece of history told in such a way that is passionate, intriguing, and never boring, there they were. The Tragically Hip is Canada, and has been since 1983. The world may not miss the Hip, but that Canada will miss them this much, means even more.

I loved watching this concert. I felt like I was a part of something bigger than myself and my country. I love that we in Canada, canonize artists as opposed to gun slingers. I love that music has so much power over a nation, over millions of individuals, over a terminally ill singer to the point where he goes on the road for a whole summer playing in every major city in the country, because it was the best thing and only thing for him to do.

Thank you so much to the Tragically Hip & their crew, and of course, the great and powerful CBC for bringing this concert to all Canadians. This show, and this tour, were an amazing gift to Canada, and something I won’t ever forget.

 

We’re having the “rape culture” converstion. Again.

This year, there has been so many conversations about ‘rape culture’; Jian Ghomeshi’s victims, verdicts of trials, women creating extraordinarily brave open letters to their rapists, run ramped on the internet. Survivor bravery is at its peak, as are memes and gifs and statuses and shares that support victim bravery, whether we know the victims or not. That is the good news.

The “bad news” of all of this is that despite all of this, we are STILL talking about rape culture. We are still lambasting media outlets and misogynistic judges and bystanders who applaud athletic effort over shunning abhorrent, disgusting behaviour of star athletes who rape — and care more about their feelings than that of those they have violated and victimized to the point where they must re-piece their lives, their agency, their sexual freedom and freedom to go to parties with the assumption that ‘nothing will happen.’ Despite positive steps in the right direction, here we are, again, collectively appalled by the results of a sexual assault trial; 6 months for being caught red-handed assaulting an unconscious woman. Because any more than that might have a significantly negative impact on the poor young rapist. And we wonder collectively why more women don’t speak up and stand up to their rapists: why? Because they are forced to be publicly scrutinized, judged, and most importantly, forced to re-live that moment again but this time, in front of everyone including lawyers and judges who clearly don’t give a shit what they have to say. Because the poor young student star athlete is suffering due to his remorseful actions (which he refuses, in the case of Brock Turner, to even acknowledge).

Because the reality of all of this is this: many people say one thing, and do another. They pretend to be male feminists, but they are still at parties taking advantage of women who won’t consent. They say they support and believe survivors, but they shun and isolate friends who have been assaulted and talk shit about them behind their back. They post memes with good intentions but then go on their merry way, ignoring anything that looks suspect at a bar because they don’t want to get involved. Because as long as there are vulnerable people, there will be people who want to take advantage of them and all of these good intentions is all for nothing because at the end of the day, rapists win in court and all the good intentions and combative posting and vehement sharing of posts like Turner’s victim’s powerful open letter to her attacker do nothing. We need to do more. We need to be better. We need to not only acknowledge and empathize with victims, but do more to fight for them, support them, listen to them, ask the right questions, make them feel validated and welcomed and most importantly of all, ‘NORMAL’. Whatever that normal looks like to the survivor.

Words I will never forget are from a former friend who once said to me in faux-concern that “[my] friends all agree that [I] need help” and that she “hopes [I] figure [my] shit out” or I will lose everyone I love. These words haunt me. When I think of them, I think of rape culture. Not from men who assault, but from women whose passive aggressiveness and their ability to attempt to use your own assault to fling back to you in your face, all the shitty things you’ve done and all your own fears of being alone or abnormal or isolated. Sometimes we assume all women and most men do their part to actively combat rape culture because they post positive messages and claim to believe survivors. And then behind closed doors they send a former best friend a private email like this and reveal that they might as well be assaulting girls and women too. This might sound harsh, but as a survivor of sexual assault, that’s how words like that feel: like a dagger in your back, like re-living your attack, by being reminded of how you often feel — as though you are nothing and nobody and it’s your fault that you were victimized.

“Rape culture” is oft-considered a buzz word that doesn’t really mean much because it means so many things. Like many areas of approaching the conversation about sexual assault, it’s best to ask victims how they see and feel and understand this supposed ‘culture’; to me, it is simply this:

Rape culture is the lack of actual support for victims. 

Rape culture is about hypocrisy, people who neglect to truly educate themselves about what survivors go through not just immediately after their assaults but possibly for months, years, decades after; rape culture is claiming to someone’s face that you believe them then going behind their back and gossiping about your “rape” to their friends; rape culture is men who take advantage of vulnerable men and women; rape culture is a lack of actively taking a stance on an individual, global or local scale against sexual assault; rape culture is claiming that women lie to entrap men; rape culture is not listening to the word “no”, and/or not understanding that rape culture is not just about ‘no means no’, but also and importantly, about ‘yes means yes’. Rape culture is isolating victims because you don’t understand them, rather than being supportive in your efforts to try to. Rape culture is acknowledging that the crime of penetration isn’t just about a penis in a vagina – it can be touching, groping, fingering, dry humping or unwanted oral sex but the feelings of the victim can still be the same regardless; all sexual assault is wrong and horrendous, no matter how the public perceives your experiences with assault and measuring it by comparing it to others’ assaults.

If you don’t support survivors, you support rape culture. It’s for this reason, rape culture still persists to this day. And why we all sit here angrily wondering how someone caught RED-HANDED can be sentenced to 6 months in prison. Why someone’s athletic career is prominently featured in an article about the crime they were convicted of. We don’t do enough to believe and support victims. We’re catty, we’re apathetic, we naturally exclude or fear what we don’t understand. We are sometimes people who take advantage of others And when we continue to stoop down to the lowest common denomination of what it means to be human, that’s when we continue a cycle of rape and assault.