Time Travel

Time travel?, you say, raising a brow in interest.

If only I could tell you my hiatus from this blog is from figuring out how to actually travel through time and space. I wish I could tell you I have patented my algorithm and am giving everyone who comments on this blog a million dollars. Alas, I cannot. I have never been very science or math minded, so if I am actually going to time travel to the last sixties, because that's where I would go, someone will have to figure it out for me.

It's been a whirlwind. Life is a bit on the crazy side and while there have been many times I've wanted to sit down and simply write, I haven't been able to find the time. Then there are those who say, you find time to do the things you love. This isn't necessarily true. It's nice when you find the time to do what you love, but most of us don't work that way. We find the time to get done what needs getting done, like laundry, dinners, painting, flooring, running errands, filling our gas tank, but when it comes to what we truly enjoy we compromise. Probably not even intentionally. We promise to do it later. Maybe at the weekend. Or the next holiday.

Now, I love writing. If that comes as a surprise, you haven't been paying attention and I owe you spanking. I've always enjoyed writing, ever since I was a chubby-faced, scraggly-haired, sensitive Sally. And I've always tried to write, and I think that's important to clarify. I do try to write. I want to be good. But a simple truth is, while I can meticulously join sentences and breathe life into characters people care about now, this hadn't always been the case, and tonight I find myself thinking about those who were subjected to my early writings. Perhaps an apology is needed.

Last week, I time travelled. I literally (though, not really literally, more so figuratively) was thrown back in time over a decade when through the door of our newly opened tattoo shop strolled my grade twelve creative writing teacher. Surely, I looked the epitome of confused because she said to me, "It's Mrs. D."

And I knew. I never forget a face, let alone one I confided in when I honestly wasn't sure I'd make it through being a teenager. How emo sounding, right? Except, it's the truth. I struggled through being a teenager. I loved school because it was a reprieve from a rather daunting family life, I had wonderful friends, without whom I wonder where I might have ended up, and I was stubborn and dwelling in darkness. What? You don't believe me? I have my creative writing book to prove it.

It looks far cheerier than it actually is. Honestly, when I reread some of the atrocities I wrote, I cringe. Not only because I clearly didn't have a grasp on the English language, but because I wasn't happy. I was struggling. And I knew at the end of the day it was my job to fix it. To mend myself. Also, I roll my eyes over how emotional and raw everything I wrote was. How dramatic. And I realize I'm officially an adult, discounting the blues of another teenager, except this one is myself, and I actually lived with those demons.

Lived? Why the hell is that past tense? I still live with some of those demons. We're good friends now. Fully aware of each other. Cohabiting rather well on most days. On others, it's grim, but in a encouraging way. A 'fuck you' demons kind of way. A 'I'm going to get through this and have the last bloody laugh if it kills us all' type of existence. 

Now Mrs. D, who isn't Mrs. D anymore, but Ms. S was (and is) a very influential person on me and in my life. Strangely enough, at the time, I didn't realize it. While she certainly encouraged my writing, she actually influenced me emotionally more than creatively. That sounds bad, but I don't mean it to. In fact, I'd take an emotional influence over a creative one any day. I've always had a rampant imagination and would ideally like someone to simmer the fire instead of stoking it, perhaps then sleep might come easier.

Way back when I seemed to be clawing my way through life before life had even really started, Ms. S validated my feelings. It's hard to explain why this is so important. I suppose one might need a bit more back-story, but I really don't plan on marching back down a road I left behind a long time ago. After the most tedious cycle of confrontation, acceptance, grieving, anger, sadness, ignoring, and so on, I eventually learned how to forgive and let go. To move on. It's been a long second half to my life, but I doubt I would have been able to get through it without someone saying: 

It's okay to feel lost, alone, and afraid. 

It's okay to dwell in the darkness with your demons.

It's okay to be angry, sad, and hurt.  

At a time when I felt wrong for feeling bad, I needed a blunt lesson in life. Ms. S provided it for me. Of course, she didn't say it so bare bones-y. She was, and is, an English teacher. Her words of wisdom came often and much more articulate than those bold sentences above, but at the core of everything she said, I heard "You are not alone. You will be alright." And that was more important than the writing encouragement or grade I received. 

Although, I must say, the demons never truly go away. You just get to know them to the point of realizing what/who they are and they aren't so scary anymore. We rarely get the opportunity to actually express to someone what it is they did for us. I'm lucky to have that chance. 

Also, I am so glad I don't write poetry anymore. Good grief, I wish someone had of told me how terrible it was. Of course, I was an emotional teenager, so that might not have been a good idea. After this unexpected visit, I find myself pondering over who will walk through the door next. 

Will it be you?

Get Lost

Remember when 'get lost' was a popular saying? It was right around the time 'get a life' was making headlines. Now, they weren't really very insulting. We took them in stride. But after actually getting lost in the forest today on my way, I can safely say, being lost is not something I would wish on anyone, not even my most devious enemy.

There's a panic to getting lost. At first, you remain calm and collecting, you're rational, but as the foliage thickens and the trees grow denser, that levelheadedness gets left behind. Then you're traipsing through the forest, with no path in sight, silently cursing yourself for being so ridiculous and seriously doubting whether you're going to make it out alive. After all, there are bears and cougars in these woods and - wait, what's that? Did you hear that noise? Something's following me.

It goes from 'nice walk in the woods' to 'I'm going to die out here' pretty quick. I was foraging my way through ferns and shrubs and trees and stumps for about twenty minutes until I found a massive rock. Upon this rock, I searched for a break in the trees, a path or road, something to tell me what way to go. Since I'd climbed up, I figured climbing down was my best bet, but there was a cliff involved and I wasn't dressed for rock climbing. From here, it went downhill, but not literally, even though that was my plan. Images popped into my head. Ones of search and rescue, cadaver dogs, and a bear dragging me off by my ankle. As my body temperature went up and dehydration started hurting my kidneys, my thoughts only worsened.

Now, I don't ever plan to go off path. It's happened once before, the scenario similar to this one, but that time I had Dixon and my phone. Both worked as a blanket of comfort in a somewhat trying moment. This time, though, I had nothing. No phone. No dog. No water. No composure. Don't worry, you don't have to lecture me. I know how stupid the whole situation was, but I didn't get lost on purpose.

So, how did I get there?

The path ended. It simply stopped. There I was, in the blistering heat, already having ran/walked over six kilometres, hungry, thirsty and tired, determined to get home. Up the path I walked, and walked, and walked, until it just stopped. Well, stopped isn't accurate. A bunch of trees had fallen in my way, causing me to think a landslide must have happened and the path surely must have picked up on the other side. It didn't. And when I turned around to go back, I must have been discombobulated because I seriously couldn't find the path again. Thus began my great adventure into new territory and what happens when you have an overactive imagination.

In the end, I didn't die. But I will never say 'get lost' to anyone ever again.

No Thank You.  

The Struggle

Most people understand the struggle. They don't like it or want it, but it's a reality for them. The struggle is a day-to-day thing. It doesn't let up on weekends, and actually gets worse over holidays. Sometimes you start to think you are going to get past the struggle, but then your dog eats your running shoes, or you can't sell you home. Instead of getting better, the struggle gets worse. Remember that saying, 'you take one step forward and two steps back'?  This is how it feels with the struggle. Sometimes it isn't only a step back, either, sometimes you feel as though you are being catapulted backwards. And you could swear the kink in your neck is not actually from sleeping funny or getting older, but is in fact whiplash from the struggle.

Some days, the struggle is so defeating. You scrounge and scrap and save, hoping to get out of debt, working towards your goal, whatever it may be. Debt free, a functioning car, a home, or maybe just a new pair of running shoes. Still, at the end of the day, week, month, year, you are no closer to the goal. No closer to an end. In fact, it feels as if you've just lived those moments for nothing, because you are back where you started, or maybe not even where you started at all. Maybe you are six steps behind where you started. And sometimes you ask yourself what the freakin' point is.

The struggle makes you tired. It wears you out to keep at it all the time. This struggling along business, it isn't for the faint of heart or weak of will. This is exhausting, you know. Well, of course you know. You are familiar with the struggle. Heck, you might even be like me - the struggle might be like family to you, or your best friend forever. The struggle has been around so long in my life, I doubt whether I would be able to exist without it. I mean, the struggle has always been here. If it suddenly disappeared would a weight be lifted off me? Would I suddenly feel free and unburdened and prance through life? Or would I be lost? Would I silently sit and wait for the struggle to return?

The truth is, there are moments when you think you aren't going to make it through the struggle. You doubt whether you will keep going. Actually, there are times where you don't want to keep going. Some days you just want the struggle to end. But then, you take a deep breath, you put your head down, and your power through. You keep going. You keep trying. Why? Because you want to see the new Avengers movie next year. Because your family and friends need you. Because giving up isn't an option. And, mostly, because your struggle isn't as bad as it could be. Actually, in a lot of ways, your struggle isn't terrible. It sucks and can get you down, but it's livable. It's doable.

When the struggle gets really hard, you take a nap. You read a book. You take a bath. Or you bake delicious vegan blondies. Which are kind of like brownies, but without the cocoa. And you remember, you're actually one of the lucky ones who are strong enough to keep struggling.

350 More To Go

After today, I only have 350 more posts to write to complete this 365 Day Challenge.

Sure, I made this challenge up on my own. Yes, I thought it was a good idea.

Maybe I bit off more than I can chew.

It isn't that I don't have 365 things I am grateful for. Heck, I probably have more.

Today, I stared off into space thinking about what to write about. You wouldn't believe my thought process. One hit wonders are playing on the radio, am I grateful for those? Catchy songs? Perhaps. Another day. Work. The ability to craft words into sentences. Being able to articulate myself well enough that I am not a complete social outcast. Loving life. Gray days. Oh, I am wearing Converse shoes. I am most grateful for those. And anchor prints on clothing. YES!

Anchor prints on clothing!

Who doesn't love a cute button up shirt with some anchors on it.

This is what I am wearing today:

Why yes, I am fabulous. Thank you.

And that anchor printed shirt. A three dollar VV Boutique find. Bam! This lady knows how to hunt down a deal.

I consider this my retro pinup sailor outfit.

ANCHORS!

Feeling Like A Joke

I've been meaning to do this sooner, but the intersnacks have been dodgy.

The interesting thing about blogging for me is that it works as a diary, helping me sort through the mountains of ridiculous crap floating around in my head. When I don't have the option, things sort of pile up and, no matter how much I stew over it, I can't just let things go. There's this weird part of writing things down that helps me release them. Sure, I could simply sit down with a pen and paper and get to scribbling, but...

No, wait. That's exactly what I did. And to be honest, it really didn't work. You see, I've been having a terrible time sleeping, which is most likely related to the state of mind I've worked myself into. Last night, for some inexplicable reason, I thought it a good idea to scrawl down the free fall of thoughts in my head. Of course, it was three in the morning and they didn't exactly come out orderly and pretty.

Actually, they came out like some haphazard list of possible blog topics, most of which I've already touched on in previous posts and others I'm not sure if I'm strong (or stubborn) enough to write about. The most common theme throughout them is feeling lonely, and health of body and mind. To me, if you have a healthy mind, your body will follow suit, mostly because you'll be motivated to get up and out and actually do something. It's been raining here, and getting up has been a chore.

Anyway, one of the points I jotted down, the first one, has been stuck in my craw for days. It's the source of a lot of heartache. And so, I'm writing about it. Here. In hopes of being able to let it go after. The thing is, I tried confronting it before, but it doesn't seem to matter how much I deep breathe or stretch my mind and body, it's there, needling away at me. I even tried talking about it, but what good is that when you feel stupid for even bringing it up.

Here's a shocking point, it's hard for me to talk about things. Surprise. It's easy to assume I'm a great talker, because I blog and vlog, but that's simply not the case. There are only two people who I feel comfortable telling anything to. I fear anyone else will take it the wrong way, maybe personally, and then offer up advice that won't help. The thing everyone needs to learn is - advice usually isn't what the person talking wants...or needs.

Back to the point, and the issue that's helped derail me from the path I was quite content to be travelling on. I'm a joke. Maybe not to you, or anyone else, but to myself, which is the person who counts the most. Today, and for the last little while, I feel like everything I do or say is a joke. And not when I'm actually being funny, but the serious stuff. My writing. The relationships I have. What I do for others. My love for knitting. Respect for animals. Everything just feels like one big joke and I'm the punchline. And not a very good one. The kind people chuckle at uncomfortably.

It doesn't seem to matter how much effort I put out or time or love or dedication, I feel pathetic. As though I am a sad little attempt at living. Where nothing I do or say matters enough to be taken note of. It's as though I'm simply playing a role, and not doing a very good job.

To be completely up front with you, it's a craptastic way to feel. And, in the battle between common sense and unreasonable feelings, rational thinking never wins.

I've tried putting a mask on and saying, I'm fine and going about my day, but the hitch is, I'm analyzing every piece of my life and losing grasp of what it is I cherished. The longer I harbour this passenger, the more I become the fool, and the feelings of displacement grow stronger. Other not-so-awesome thoughts pop into my head at unfair times. Like feeling invisible. Unwanted. A piece of furniture that always gets in the way, takes up too much room and isn't very pretty to look at. Then, the loneliness seeps in. A silent messenger who comes in the middle of the night when I'm laying next to someone.

Then I start wondering, why I'm not getting what I want?

I know it isn't fair, to want someone else to make me feel better. To distract me. To help me through the tangled knots of my mind. To reassure me that I'm not so bad. To love me even when it's hard to love myself. To forgive my bad mood. To understand where I'm coming from. To see me for who I am, not who I want to be or think I am. To demand attention. To want to be held, kissed and hugged, simply because I'm not happy with the reflection in the mirror.

It isn't fair of me to project my own demons onto someone else.  

The hardest part is, I've been here before, and  it's frustrating because I don't know how I got here again. This girl isn't me. I'm not supposed to be resentful or bitter. This uncertainty doesn't look good on me. I thought I managed to free myself of the constraints of my past, but it's there, sneaking up when it finds a chink in my armour and delivering blow after blow. Apparently, this baggage isn't going anywhere.

I'm a child again. A sad, dysfunctional child wanting the approval and affection of the people I love. Who feels disappointed in herself for letting others down. For letting herself down. The little, ugly, chubby, messy girl with the ratty hair and ill-fitting jeans. She is at the centre of who I am. And the little bitch is strong, and demanding.

I guess this has been going on since Christmas. Ever since, I've felt as thought things have changed. Inside me and all around me. And there's truth in change. We stop doing things for reasons. I'm trying hard to work through those, but the glue and staples don't seem to be holding.

Usually, I pull away. Distance myself. Put up walls. Hide out until the storm passes, or at least ravages and ruins everything in its wake. It seems as though no matter how hard I try not to, I revert back to the girl who doesn't want to get hurt and only ends up hurting myself. The thing is, I'm trying, to talk, to explain, to have some sort of connection that feels real, but I doubt whether it's working. Maybe I'm looking for feed back. A nod. Blink of an eye. Or perhaps just a simple clearing of the throat.

Everything I've wrote on this blog in the past is truth. I know that in my heart, even if it is stubborn and angry right now. Love is the way. You have to be beautiful inside to be beautiful out. Happiness comes from within. It's the little things in life. But the funny thing is, no matter how much you know to be true, all it takes is a shift in weather to fog up your glasses and change the way you see the world.

I'm hoping for another change in weather soon, so I can go back to seeing myself and the world for what it truly is.

And now, a quote:

Perhaps I shouldn't have posted this. That's it, I'm writing about cake tomorrow.