Rambling…

My reason for starting this blog was to have a place to write everything down and know that it’d still be there in the rare occurrence that things may turn out for the better, but this blog just causes me stress. Knowing that anyone – especially people who try so desperately to squeeze into mine and my families’ personal lives – can read all the things that I’ve always kept so deep inside. How am I suppose to comfortably write, blog, share when I’m so concern with who or what is reading my thoughts? I use to find comfort in that thought, the fact that people around the world would read my blog posts and in their own ways connect with me, or perhaps find comfort in knowing that their pain wasn’t abnormal. Now, every time I begin to write my anxiety spikes. My mind shuts down and I am unable to write anything.

But really, what more can I say? What else can I blog about that I haven’t said before? My life is just so repetitive, so boring; its comparable to writing the same sentence over and over again, and yet I do nothing to make it better, nothing to make my life more exciting and more worthy of being called a “life”. I just exist, that is all. I do not live life, or embrace the unpredictable, yet beautiful chaos that life brings. I idle, neither going forward nor backwards, in a place of unhappiness and entrapments. I often feel as though I am living in a glass box, able to see the glorious life that lays just feet away from me and yet I am unable to break, or escape from my enclosure and so I run in circles. I continue to run in circles, day in and day out, to incompetent to see that my glass house has no roof, to” comfortable” in my routine to see what is literally just above me, just feet in the air. I fear that if I do not begin to climb, jump, or reach for a way out I will be in this place forever. Stuck in a life that I am not happy in, stuck re-living the same day repeatedly and calling it a life.

I’ve always had so many excuses, whether it be my dad or my nephews, it was an excuse. I barely visited my dad, and my nephews didn’t need me as much as I made it seem, but saying I couldn’t leave because of my dad or nephews was easier than accepting the fact that I was just too scared. But fear is normal. Being scared means your stepping out of your comfort zone and making progress in your life. What isn’t normal is how unhappy of a person I am, how I haven’t had a relationship sense tenth grade, that I haven’t been in love sense Brandon, and that I haven’t moved on from things that happened so many years ago.

Why haven’t I moved on?

Why can’t I find the strength to learn from my mistakes and move forward, why haven’t I been living like a typical 20 something? I can’t continue to blame other people and past mistakes for why my present is such a mess.

                      How easy is it for me to say what I know needs to be done yet I am here still, still in the same place I was a year ago; the same place I was in 3 years ago.

I need to stop caring so much for the wellbeing of other people, because lord knows no one cares about me as deeply as I care about them, and begin to focus on me, on what will make me feel better. No matter how hard its going to be. I’m tired of being the person who is always there for everyone else, and yet I am constantly lonely. I am tired of crying in the shower or late at night because I am lonely.

I’m so lonely.

I’ve been so lonely sense the death of my best friend. No one understands, and I don’t know how to explain to people, why her death has messed me up so much. I don’t know how to tell people that she was my comfort. I don’t know how I’m suppose to tell people that she was the 17498646_10158508230045381_4974498748359248487_nonly thing on the planet that could calm me down when my anxiety was beating me down, how she was the only reason my depression didn’t consume me – she always knew when I was depressed and she’d curl up in my arms and gently lick away the tears from my face. She was the one thing in this world that I couldn’t imagine losing; and then I lost her. It was so sudden, it was so painful, I didn’t even get to sit with her, tell her I loved her one last time, and comfort her while they ended her suffering. I’m still so angry that I didn’t get the chance to make the decision whether I saw her pass away or not, and I resent my mom because of it. I love my mom, so much, but I hate what she did. I hate that I had to be in the dark about my best friend, and that I was at work while my bug took her last breath. I wish my mom would have allowed me to make the decision, I wish she knew how angry I am at her for taking that away from me. Jayda was more mine to me than just a dog, and I thought my mom knew that; it hurts so much that she doesn’t get it. I wanted to be there, that’s why I stayed up for 3 days making sure she didn’t die alone – yet she still did.  She died in a place that was unfamiliar, with nothing and no one. That breaks my heart more than anything, knowing she was so alone, and I hate myself everyday for it.                    

I just wish I knew why I lost her… She was my baby…

That’s another thing…

I’m almost 27 and I’m no closer to having a baby than I was 5 years ago, actually I was closer 5 years ago, and yet it appears everyone around me are having babies – my sister included.

I love my sister, but she never wanted to be a mom and here she is a mom of almost 3 and I have nothing. I use to dream of being a mom, I use to play house – imagining that I was a house wife and my husband was working – and care for my dolls as though they were real. I took care of my parents friends son when I was 13, and dreamed of the day when I had one of my own – all the while my sister locked herself in her room and would stay far away from children. So why is she the one who gets to have babies, and I’m the one who has Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome? Life’s not fair I suppose…

Ugh, I guess I’ll end this here since I’m rambling..

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R A C E

Race.

Not the kind of race in which we run and see who crosses the finish line first, that’s simple; No, I’m talking about the color of our skin, the place our ancestors came from, the box we check when we’re asked about our ethnicity. Our roots, while very important, are not suppose to be all the outside world sees; our ethnicity isn’t suppose to separate us from other people or stick us in subcategories that we really don’t fit into. The year is 2016, but sometimes I feel like it is still 1916, 1816.

Why does the pigment of our skin, the religion we follow, the language we speak, the customs we participate in, or the place our families migrated from matter? Why do we still base every little thing on race. Why do we group people of the same religion in with the “bad” people who fall within the same religion, ethnicity, etc. We stereotype people based on what we think we “know”. People assume Syrian refugees are only here to harm us, or bring their war over seas, those same people assume all African American men are thugs or that all Indigenous people are all lazy drunks. We blame an entire group of people for what happened on September 11th many years ago, and we belittle an entire race of people for the way they coped with residential school trauma.

But why?

Why do we continue down this hatred paved path where we allow our ignorance to cloud our judgement and continuously blame innocent people for things that they weren’t even a part of? I don’t know, But I know it needs to stop. Something needs to change, we need to stop looking into the roots of people, at the color of their skin, or of how they decide to dress and base our judgements – because people will always judge – on the person they personally are, not who they remind us of or on who they may be related to. We need to realise that our world started out as one, whether you believe in creation untitledor evolution, we all came from the same place. We all began, every race, every ancestor,  in Pangea. Our world was one. I am one of the palest white girls I have ever known, mostly because I hate bugs and being hot so I don’t go tanning in the summer, but its also my genetics. I was born with blue eyes and dark blonde hair and so the world just sees me as a Caucasian. I like to surprise them and inform them that, yes mostly white/Caucasian/European and I haven’t had to deal with racism and (as much) hate, I am also Middle eastern, Native American, and a whole handful of other ethnicities. What I’m trying to prove is that we are not our race or the color of our skin. We are not our religion, we are not the language we speak or the god we pray to, we are not the same as the bad people who share the same home land, we are all unique and beautiful and we shouldn’t fear being who we are or be procescuted for what our ancestors did before we were even a thought in our parents minds; we are all one.

I realize that most people don’t see it that way, or perhaps I’m generalizing as well, but I have met more people who judge others by what happened in the past or by what they look like. I’m not going to sit here and act like I haven’t been that kind of person, I can’t say I never placed a certain religion, race or type of people in one group based on what the media reports or because of one bad person. But ive realized that no one deserves to be judged based on what we don’t know or understand or because of their skin tone. I guess once the roles are reversed and you get a taste of how much it hurts you change.

I’m not perfect and I know that, I use to fear middle eastern people and judge East Asian families based on their ability to build dream homes – which in reality was just my jealousy – but I also judged my primary race. I use to speak down on catholic people because of Residential schools. I would judge Europeans for taking land that wasn’t available to be “claimed”, for enslaving other races, for their ignorance and holy-er than thou attitudes. I was always trying to cope with the fact that my primary ethnicity, my ancestors, hurt – and continue to hurt – so many people in so many ways and in my own way make up for their mistakes.  But when I fell in love with a boy from another ethnicity he only saw me as a white girl. He knew who I was inside, he knew how much I hated the fact that Europeans caused so much pain to other races, he knew I wasn’t the same and yet he grouped me into that category and used it against me. I let him. I won’t put it all on him because I was already struggling with it. I allowed him to stay close to me because I thought he would change his mind one day, if he saw how much I loved him, how much I hated my own “kind”. It never worked, it just allowed the wound to fester and cause irreversible pain.

That pain changed me. Every time I see or hear someone judging someone based on what they looked like on the outside I remember the pain I felt. I put myself in their shoes and I understand; I empathize, I can’t understand the depths of the pain people feel when they love with the racism daily, but I can empathize, And it kills me. It kills me to know that people deal with this daily.

I wish one day we’ll be one again; but I think we all know that won’t happen anytime soon…

That night..

Living through a traumatic or stressful experience hits people in different ways, we may suppress our feelings, we may deal with them and heal properly, or we may break.

[Trigger Warning: Sexual Assault]

I’ve talked about it a lot, wrote endless posts about ryan and what he did to me; but I’ve never really addressed the toll it took on me emotionally, physically and psychologically. When I was sexually assaulted I was thrown into a whirlwind of emotions. Not just because of what happened either.

I was 16, its been ten years and I haven’t been able to form a meaningful relationship since the night I lost sight of who I was. Beyond the crippling feeling associated with being assaulted, I hurled myself into the dark hole that has become my life. I thought that because my “friends” didn’t believe me, including the one person who was lying in that bed with me, no one would. My mom would say I was just drunk and because he was native people would assume that I asked for it, or perhaps that I lead him on. Those thoughts often run through my mind, maybe I did lead him on, but whether I lead him on or not I said no. I pushed his hands away and I said no. I wanted to sleep, that’s all and so I was the only one who convinced him to get out of the bed my “friend” and I were sleeping in, while two grown men watched on. I was the one who got him to the couch and then ran to the bedroom to lock the door. I was alone from that night on.

I suppressed myself, I suppressed the memories of that night as much as I could. I tried with all my energy to ignore the pounding in my head and the triggers and memories that enclosed around me. Until I couldn’t take it anymore, until the walls around me began to close in and I avoided people and places that he knew and went to. I avoided the world. I lived in a make believe world on the internet, where I could pretend I was happy, full of life and unharmed. I flirted and engaged with men on the internet, I took pictures that showed a side of me that wasn’t really there. I did not feel sexual, I did not feel like a normal 17 year old, or 18, or frankly today an almost 26 year old. I lost all need for intimacy and for sex, I began feeling as though I was broken, that he had turned off a switch most humans (and dolphins) have. It was hard enough when I was just living with the fact that my ex boyfriend came out after I lost my virginity to him but now I was broken goods, I was used and abused and afraid to tell anyone. I couldn’t tell my friends that the reason I dropped out of school and couldn’t come back was because being in that school, the school his picture hung on the wall of, was more difficult then I imagined. And I couldn’t explain to them why, at times, I was unreachable. Why I went months and years before I would work up the courage to see them again. They did not know me, this me, and I didn’t give them the chance to. I hid away so much that even my mom, dad and sister rarely saw me for more than 10 minutes. I stayed in my dark room for days, with my laptop and my fake smile photos and slept all day. I often thought about ending it all, it would be easier, it would be peaceful and I would be free. I would be free. Over the span of 6 years I watched as the world turned and aged around me and I felt as though I was trapped in the same place and time I was shortly after that night. I lived in a constant state of fear, fearful of being touched, being within two feet of a male. I was fearful of someone seeing it in my eyes that my world had gone black. I began to lash out in anger, I banged on doors trying to break them down, I told my pregnant sister I was gonna kick her in the stomach, I resented the world. I sat alone in my room and saw pictures and videos of other people living life, having babies, falling in love and I hated them all. I hated the fact that because I didn’t know how to heal, I didn’t have the courage to face what had happened that night, I wasn’t able to move on. I wasn’t able to fall in love, or trust someone. I felt stripped of the one thing all these girls were taking advantage of – being a mother. I can’t proclaim that it was only his touch made me this way, because there are girls and guys out there that have been sexually assaulted who have sex more, have kids from different dads, but my own self hatred over what I allowed to happen that night, the fact that I didn’t trust anyone to talk about it, I allowed his memories and his touch eat me alive and change the person I was suppose to become.

I realise now that the sexual assault was the first of many things I couldn’t heal from.

I didn’t know how to be happy, or how to move on from things, I still don’t. I didn’t know how to put my anger and pain aside to be happy for my sister and my friends when they had their first bundle of joys. I wasn’t able to put aside my selfish emotions long enough to be genuinely happy for anyone. I lost sight of my own health and I gained weight I still can’t lose. I hated myself more with everyday that passed, every pound I gained, every night I laid in bed and visions of that night circled in my mind. I just assumed I was depressed. I assumed a lot of things, okay I assume a lot of things. It hasn’t changed. Nothing has changed. I am still that 16 year old girl who was to scared to do anything about the night I was ruined. I speak about it, but I’ve never confronted the people that were involved, I suppressed my voice on subjects that needed to be expressed in a hopes that I would never be put in the position where I wouldn’t be believed – because I never told people my thoughts, my opinions, I never expressed my voice. I allowed the boy who molested me add me on facebook, and while he had no idea how broken I had become with every message he sent me asking me to hang out, I marinated in the pain. With every asd.pngmessage the pain sunk deeper into me, with every “wanna grab a coffee” the memories and smells and feelings rushed back to me. I couldn’t move, I cried, I froze, I wanted to scream but had no way of explaining it to my mom had she heard. I cut myself hoping it would stop, but he still continued to message me. I finally blocked him from ever messaging me again, in hopes that if I was not readily available he could not make his way into my life. But I was wrong I was wrong to think that just because I was able to block him on social media I was blocking him from my life. He started messaging me on any form of social media or dating sites (which I made in hopes of finding a person who would help me heal) reopening a healing wound. He referred to that night as a little mistake or something he didn’t remember and my entire body shook in anger, in fear, in realizing that he will never admit to being or doing wrong. And I know that I must forgive someone who will never apologize and I must grow from this experience but with every minute that goes by, and every memory that resurfaces I lose hope and manifest in this anger and pain.

People have often asked and wondered why losing Jayda was so much more traumatic for me than losing my dad, and I tell them because she was always here. I tend to leave out that she was my comfort, she calmed me down and kissed(licked) away my tears. I would snuggle up with her and stroke her soft fur and it felt safe. I felt like no one and nothing could hurt me in that moment. That’s why it hurts so much. I am now without the only thing that kept me alive in the darkest days. I stayed alive because I didn’t want Jayda to be alone, I am still here because of her; and I failed to keep her here. But that’s a whole other story. I guess it was the fact that she would lay with me and I had someone who always wanted to be next to me, even to the point that she would sleep inside a sweater or zip up jacket. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I miss having someone close to me, and I think that is the worst part of all of this. The fact that being physically and emotionally close to someone scares me beyond belief now. I use to love to be close to people, to hug my friends, to interlock arms while we walked anywhere, hug people, be near people; and now the only person I get that close to are my nephews and sometimes my mom. I miss the feeling of a strong, steady arm holding me, that sense of security and love. Now if an arm goes near me I flinch in remembrance of that night. I forget what its like to look into the eyes of a man and feel love, and the gentle touch of a hand while watching a movie or driving. I miss being able to feel calm in the presence of a man. I miss being kissed, I miss the rush that goes with new love, and those feelings that could almost make you sick. I miss love.

I know I need to face the people and things that hurt me, I know I need to stop living in the past and suppressing who I am, but knowing and doing are two drastically different things and I don’t know how to fix the way my brain has adapted to my trauma. I don’t know how to fix the scar the molestation left on my soul, or how to love another man when I’ve always been hurt.

***

Creator,

I pray to you in hopes that you can lead me towards the path of healing. That one day I will be free of the pain that started in the hands of a boy who was lost. I pray for the strength to forgive him for his wrong doings, to move on from the darkness of my past, and to grow into someone who perceivers through the pain.

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Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me

When does the pain stop? 

When does this empty feeling go away? When does the useless feeling, the lost feeling subside? When will I be happy? “It gets better” they say, “just give yourself time to heal.” Tell me, please, how I am suppose to repair a broken heart and soul.

It’s been 11 long years since my life fell apart; I was confident and happy, my eyes sparked with hope of a happy life and then that hurricane hit. I can’t stress how crushing it is to have a guy come out as gay especially at 14 after you slept together for the first time just three months before. I can’t begin to explain the depth of the pain that brings me, the demons anxiety invited in tell me daily that I was responsible for his decision. Even after being told over and over again that it was nothing I did, that I didn’t “turn him gay” a huge part of me still believes that something I did turned him off women.

My sane mind knows being gay isn’t a choice, but most of the time the demons scream louder then my same mind can.

It didn’t make my fears and insecurities any better when he came back into my life. 4 months of passive aggressive and just plain aggressive comments dimmed every star that use to sparkle in my eyes. He controlled my entire life, using threats to achieve his own personal goals. I lost friends, I lost my self worth and I felt tired and worn from carrying his sucide threats, from battling with his “I’ll go full gay” comments if I made him angry. I felt trapped and alone; alone because he was often unreachable. He was never there when i needed him to be, I called him for hours after my grandma died and heard nothing from him; I couldn’t reach him on nights that I was up all night crying about my dads diagnosis. He was my first love, my last relationship.

His problems kept me from my family for that awful 10 months. Kept me away from one of my favorite people; my beautiful grandma. Her soul was so genuine, her laugh was 081 (2).JPGcontagious and she loved deeper then any person I have ever known. I still have the last time I saw her burnt into my brain. The hazy memory torments me, sitting across the room from her watching her cry. It was Christmas, it was beautiful chaos, it was comfortable and it was home; she always felt like home even though I never lived with her. Her best friend died and she was missing him, missing him the way you miss someone during the holidays, that bittersweet feeling of joy and pain. I kick myself everyday that I didn’t make more of a effort to see her, I was consumed with my own pain that I couldn’t see that she was suffering. I remember the day she died often, it hit me so hard hearing those words. It felt like a part of me died, that my heart was ripped from my chest and that my home had burnt to the ground. It was so unexpected, she was improving the nurses said, they must be wrong, why? Curled up in the fetal position crying so hard I couldn’t breath, memorizing the time and day God took my angel, I fell into a restless sleep only to awake to a new reality I couldn’t deal with..

Like a unsettling storm that picks up speed with every passing second I was thrown into a whirlwind of emotions; A moment of peace seemed to be closely followed by hours of unrelenting spinning. Lets go back a few days, it was a Tuesday and his diagnosis was over shadowed for a moment because of grandma’s heart attack and untimely death. My strong, resilient dad was handed a death sentence at only 44 years of age and for the first time in my life I saw fear in his eyes. Life has a not-so-funny way of doing things, we get pushed to our limits and learn from it; well we’re expected to learn from it. I never understood that, that ridiculous notion that we must suffer to become stronger. I have watch people deteriorate and kill themselves slowly, I’ve see pain and suffering that never really goes away. I have only learned to fear, to doubt and to build walls to protect me. I have learned that blood is not stronger then water or drugs, that people and things are thrown away if they are broken. I haven’t learnt or grown from the sorrows threw my way, I have not understood or accepted. I continue to suffer in silence over my own and everyone around me’s issues and pain

Watching my dad slowly deteriorate was one of the hardest things I ever had to do, it killed me inside. I had no motivation to do anything my depression took a hold of me and my anxiety made my think the worst everyday thoughts like “I’ll come home and he
wont be alive” ran through my head and I had no room in my head to learn. I began missing school, a lot. My grades were falling and I didn’t care, I failed most of my first semester courses in grade 11 and barely made it a month into second semester before dropping out. It was almost exactly two years after my grandma’s death and my dad’s diagnosis and I struggled a lot with my decision, especially so close to graduation but we were only given a certain number of days with my dad, he out lived the 18 months but I had no idea if he would live longer then 2 year and I couldnt deal with the anxiety that surrounded the unknown and only felt some relief if I was home with him. A few weeks before I dropped out of school I met this girl, I’m going to refer to her as K because she doesn’t even deserve to be fully named. K lived with her biological dad’s ex girlfriend (M) and her kids and on the weekends they stayed at M’s boyfriend’s house. M’s boyfriend had 4 other kids from a previous marriage and one (S) was close to mine and K’s age but old enough to legally buy alcohol; we drank a lot, the three of us and his 2b4139adf25e8c889e50f4e99dbaf86f.jpgvarious friends. I never have been a big drinker but at that point I was desperate for a momentary break from reality and so I drank as fast and as much as I could to kill my sorrow and when I did I spent the night. I never once had any issues and slowly their family and friends became mine until one night in May. It was a warm night, I was drinking and stumbled back to the house as the party ended, I had been at my boyfriend at the times house and preferred to spend the evening with him then at a party. There was only Ryan and K and S and his brother still hanging around when I got back which didn’t bother me because Ryan, S and his brother never seemed like a threat; oh how naive I was. K and I usually slept in S’s bedroom because there was a huge bed and he didn’t mind sleeping on the couch, this night was different though. We ended up in S’s room to continue to drink because his dad was sleeping. In that room, in a bed I had slept in many times I was molested; K sleeping next to me, inches from my face yet I could not move to wake her up. The terror that Ryan brought into my life still haunts me, why couldn’t I move or speak? My nightmare wasn’t over though, no not even close . Nothing is worse then being sexually assaulted and not believed, being made to feel like I asked for it and not being able to tell anyone in fear that you would be doubted again. After everything I had been threw with males I felt like I was even more damaged then before. I have not been soberly intimate with someone since his cold fingers made their way down my body and underwear, I haven’t had a pap smear or trusted another man since.

**Disclaimer, this is not completely true. My best friend is a male, he has always believed me, and been there for me. He is the one of the most amazing men I have ever known and he reassures me that there are trustworthy men out there, I couldn’t continue this without acknowledging how amazing and trustworthy he is. I owe him more then I could ever give him. **

I have stayed away from alcohol and the idea of drinking sent me into a whirlwind of angry and painful emotions that always ended in a panic attack and a turned off phone. On the rare occasions that I did drink, which weren’t often, I would either drink too much or sip on one drink and hand it to someone else.  I mastered the art of fake drinking in situations I felt unsafe in and would only sleep at other peoples houses if there was no chance of other people being there and if there was I would taxi to my best friends house and crash in his bed. There were a couple times I drank so much I lost all sensible behavior and ended up in a bed with someone. I hate admitting that, I’m not that person but thankfully both of the guys were old friends and were nothing but respectful after and during..

This is a pattern my family knows well, Drinking and sleeping around has been a family tradition as far back as my great grandparents. This is not something I am proud of, or something that I ever wanted to do. Alcohol and drugs have taken so much from me and my family I don’t know why I ever put myself in the situations I put myself in, or why I didn’t learn from my elders mistakes. I changed my ways, I didn’t want to have that reputation. I didn’t want to follow in their footsteps so I stopped.

“I’ve seen my whole family struggle, with money, with drugs, with alcohol, and I thought there must be a better way. As you mature, you realize you don’t choose your family. It’s not your fault what they do and you should not be ashamed. “

Shortly after my grandma died, my dad got sick and my “first love” came out my family was hit with yet another challenge. My uncle, a tall-ish man with a temper and img083.jpgpersonality to match, suddenly stopped coming around, he stopped being a part of our lives and when he was around he was often in his own little world. I never knew why, I didn’t want to come to terms that he was battling his demons with drugs or that my uncle wasn’t perfect. I looked up to him so much, I looked forward to seeing him and he was without a doubt my favorite uncle. I decided a long time ago that if I got married and my dad had passed I wanted Uncle Bill to walk me down the aisle because he was the only other man other then my dad I would trust to give me to my future husband. I don’t want to get married anymore, trusting males never got me anywhere and even if I did I’d walk alone, there I go digressing again. We didn’t see or hear from him for about a year, his addiction killed the only uncle I loved unconditionally and in kind of glad I didn’t see him in that condition. His demons picked at him and his inability to cope with his moms death led him to a pipe, a white crystallized substance that was to blame for losing his entire family and no where to live. A little over a year and a half later his entire life was controlled by his addiction, he was so consumed with trying to get high or finding a way to make money for drugs his personal relationships fell apart. His common-law wife kick him out of their house and he was left homeless and broken. My mom has the biggest heart, she would give her last dollar to someone she loves even if she needed it, and without a second thought opened our home to him.

I have to admit, I felt as though we would finally have the old him back and we would finally have our family back together; little did I know the severity of his addiction or that he was not the only one that was battling addiction. I have so many fond memories of that short-lived time he lived here. He was involved in our lives, he was a breath of fresh air and gave my dad an opportunity to feel like his old self. My uncle did not sugar coat the world or treat him different, they joked and laughed and our home was alive again. It was short lived, the good times usually are when dealing with addicts, he met a woman who was just as sick as he was and stopped coming home. The day my parents kicked him out my mom’s camera went missing and he was automatically blamed, even though my dad’s brother and care workers were also in and out of our house all day, and my heart broke again.

Sadly, he wasn’t the only one in our family that was addicted to drugs or negative behaviors.

My youngest uncle, he’s only 15 years older then me yet acts like a child. He drinks, does drugs, brags about his sexual activities and claims he was in porn. He has never had a serious relationship and I’m sure has a few unknown children, born and unborn, around somewhere. He was the first to point out my uncle’s problems, he was the first to gossip about his drug using yet was never a man enough to admit that he was also just as sick as his brother. The one huge difference between my Uncle Bill and this idiot is that Uncle Bill had no kids that his actions were effecting. How can you call yourself a father while you are out dropping acid, bragging about being in porn and snorting cocaine to stay awake? How can you bring a child, let alone a daughter, into this world and not show her how a man is suppose to act? She is now just as messed up as he is stealing checks and cashing them, drinking all weekend and sleeping around. He would refer to his choices and actions as “being an adult” and had the audacity to bring another life into this world when he wasn’t even capable to raise the one he has. A mini him now runs wild in this world, 5 years old and already swearing and unruly, a product of two addicts who continue to use and abuse drugs. He is the first to speak ill of Uncle Bill, to spread lies about how he’s not working or smoking meth, yet will never admit that he is too. That he is living a double life or that his web of lies are so tangled he is unsure of what it real. He often calls my mom asking for money or a ride, he is in an unhealthy relationship that effects 4 innocent children and has the maturity level of a 10 year old boy. To say that I dislike him would be an understatement. In my eyes he is just as untrustworthy as they make my uncle appear to be.

I am in debt for 20,000 dollars because I decided to go to Vancouver Career College instead of a public college. I was only told, by many potential employers, after I was already done that most places see Vancouver Career College on a resume and throw it away. I am in debt for something I can even use.

In addition to all of this, I have watched my sister struggle relentlessly with a custody battle between her and her children’s father. Her pain and sorrow is evident, especially when he first left, whenever there’s a family holiday or birthday and her and the boys are left without the missing piece. Her only wish was for a happy family, a mom and dad together. We weren’t raised with separated parents and we never had to divide our time between homes, and she didn’t want that for her boys either. The exhaustion and pain I see in her eyes on a daily basis is heart wrenching and so unnecessary. This and so many other little situations I’ve experienced showed me that love doesn’t conquer all, that love isn’t taken as serious as it one was. It scares me to see how easy people throw away their families and their wives/fiances/girlfriends and I know I would be shattered if I ever dealt with the pain and broken trust that my sister, and many of my friends have dealt with.

Every time I try to heal to move on from my tormented past something else always gets thrown at me or someone I love.

***

Now I understand that we all go through things and the way we handle them reflects our future, however how can you stay optimistic when it feels like everything is working

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Baby Me!

against you. Even if I some how overcame everything from my past the one thing I have always wanted will still be so far from my reach because of tiny little cysts that line my ovaries. I’m just so overwhelmed and unmotivated. My entire life just seems like a waste and there are so many days that I don’t want to get out of bed and try because it doesn’t matter what I do, say or take nothing gets rid of this pain. This feeling of being a failure. I’m so broken and messed up my body cant produce serotonin yet It will grow cysts. How am I learning anything being a sales associate/keyholder/cashier? I want to do bigger and better things in my life but my self doubts and past haunt me. I feel so lost and hopeless. Maybe one day I can look back on this and I’ll be married with kids and a career and most of all I’ll be happy.

Until then I’ll put my trust in god and dream of better days.

From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed; lead me to the rock that is higher than I” – Psalms 61:2

***

 

Six months.. 

For everyone else today is just a Monday, the start of another week of school or work. Another sunrise and sunset, another day the earth moves around the sun. But for me and my family today marks half a year, 6 long months without a part of our family; A grandpa, a dad, a husband and a friend. I can’t believe how the time has flown, I swear it was just yesterday We took turns sitting by his bed saying goodbye, but then again I swear it was just yesterday that he was down in the garage working on an old car or truck.. Time escapes me I suppose.

Time.. An invention of the human mind to track days and years.. Something I wish I could turn back. I would give anything to go back to the time in this photo, to enjoy his jokes and memorize his heathy, happy face and voice.. It’s been years since I’ve heard it.
Hold your love ones close, because you never really know how different life is when they’re gone until it happens.
It’s such a blur, the day my dad left this world.. I woke up with no motivation to go to work, work was my happy place at the time so I didn’t understand the dreadful feeling that overcame my entire body. I dragged my feet to get out of bed, to straighten my hair, to get dressed. I sat partly ready on my couch and my mind raced with words I needed to get out, put on paper or in words somehow. That’s how I started blogging, the intense feeling that I had to share the real reason I was so upset about my dads decision, I thought I could handle it; but I knew my mom was loosing far more then my sister or I. I wrote, I cried, I spilt the words I wish I could of spoke about how losing my dad was less emotional then my mom losing her partner is crime and the love of her life. I wrote about his love for her, their memories I was lucky enough to witness and the pain and worry in my moms face everyday and every night. I wrote how he was an awesome dad, but he prided himself of being an amazing husband. They fought, hard hardships and downfalls but their love was deeper then any grave, ocean or disease. If I could pin point one thing he taught me it would be how a man should treat his wife. I then went to have a bath, to relax, and left my phone on the couch in the living room; from the bathroom I heard my phone ring and my heart stopped.
“Dad died” through tears my mom said, her voice cracking and I went numb. This wasn’t suppose to happen, he was suppose to change his mind like he did before; he wasn’t dead I decided, this is a lie and it can’t be true. I had this false persona, that I was okay but the truth was I was pushing the feelings down cause I didn’t want to deal with the truth. I allowed myself to be bothered by situations that weren’t important, I lashed out and became distant because it was easier to be angry then weak. I would cry myself to sleep and act like I was dealing with it fine, I’d hurt myself just to feel something and I wanted to be dead. I wanted to be with my grandma, my great grandpa, my uncle doug and most of all my dad. I didn’t want to live, walk this earth without him here. I didn’t want to live with the pain that followed me everywhere. It’s ironic that I was the “strong” one the only one who understood why he was tired before he left, yet I was the weakest once he passed.. Irony.

It’s ironic that we are so naive, so un-trusting that we think we’ll feel a certain way no matter what people say.

It’s been a rough road, my entire world flipped upside down once the dread set in. I can’t pin point the exact date it hit me, but I remember getting picked up from work and wanting to ask my mom If she went to see dad. My mind whirled and every detail of the past months resurfaced and it hit me like a bus; of course she didn’t go see dad, dad is ashes in a box in the hallway next to our rooms. The next few days I went through what everyone else had already dealt with, the pain, the realization and the grief. No one really understood why now, after so many months it was effecting me so badly, I didn’t want to admit it was because I was in denial. I finally broke and spoke to my doctor, I began accepting the fact that he’s free of pain and that my pain is nothing compared to what he dealt with. There’s still days where I am weak and I am unable to deal with everyday life; my jealousy gets the best of me, my pain gets the best of me, but I cant let it get all of me. I can’t give up now, he would be so disappointed in me if I killed myself, made mom deal with more pain. I know that I will struggle with this for the rest of my life, but I hope it’ll get easier eventually.

Rest in Peace Daddy, I love you and miss you more then you will ever know.

It’s funny, well not funny in the sense that one would laugh but maybe in the way you realize that what we’ve gone through or we’re going through someone else has experienced as well. 

In a book store, a mall or maybe even a hallmark store we stumble upon things that seems to know, or rather the author seems to know, the pain that we are experiencing, the words we cannot say. 

I found a book tucked behind cards and gift bags at my local Hallmark Cards store which had a passage I’d love for each person suffering from some sort of loss to read. 

  
This passage, the entire first page outlines the way I feel everyday. 

I read this often now, reminding myself that one day that I will be better one day. 

Some say I’m a dreamer, but I can’t be the only one. 

Imagine, if you will. That everything we say was real. 

“I’m fine” no longer was a way to get out of admitting your pain. Our natural instinct wouldn’t be to push our feelings out of the way, imagine what we would gain. 

Our deepest regrets and our suffering would no longer be just ours, no longer just manifesting in our minds. We wouldn’t die with regrets or unspoken lines.

Instead we would live in a world that knows that we are not brave, strong or “robot” enough to deal with things that destroy us alone. We can openly say “my heart is broken” or “your actions and words hurt” instead of crying while acting like we don’t care behind the screen of a phone. 

We wouldn’t take our lives, cut our skin or swallow pills in a desperate attempt to quiet the demons and pain, if we weren’t ashamed to share what hurt us. No brave faces, no unspoken words just honesty, anger, crying and fuss. 

We wouldn’t need to question the actions, the feelings of others, we wouldn’t be afraid to expose our vulneralable side. Imagine the people we could be, the ones we could have saved, if humanity didn’t make us feel like we have be someone else, that we have to hide. 

————————————————–

Even now I’m sitting here, unable to vocalize what I am feeling to anyone because “fine” is the easiest answer.

I get asked daily how I am, it’s part of that annoying way we are expected to greet people. I tell them I’m good, or fine, and continue on with the way I’m expected to act. Expectations.. That’s what wrong with society. We’re expected to be kind, to be quiet, to follow rules set for us through parents, teachers, employers and of course theinfamous  “girl/bro codes”. We are constantly told how to be, given time lines on feelings, expected to be and act a certain way after something or someone inflicts pain on us. We are encouraged to put on a happy face and go with the flow, we are told to fake it until we make it and having “walls” up is so common these days that I don’t think anyone allows their true self show. 

I am beyond guilty of this. 

Instead of allowing my true feelings show I fake a smile, change the topic or pretend that the situation doesn’t hurt. I hate it, I loathe the fact that I am unable to be real with people because I am afraid of what they will say or think. What they will say behind my back, hushed whispers when I’m around. We are all such cowards, talking about people rather to them. Complaining instead of fixing, backstabbing instead of uplifting. This is what we’ve become. 

Oh what a world we live in.