What Do You See?

I have to wonder if you see them differently now.

Now that you know.

To assume that perhaps you don't believe it- that just doesn't fit. How could you not?

So what do you think when you see them with their masks on, knowing that is what they wear- their masks they cling to with every fiber of their being. What do you see? Do you see the ties ending in a looping bow at the backs of their heads? Do you see the distortion between frames?

I guess I'm asking,

Is what you see and what is real finally colliding? Or do doubts still linger?

Cause they still linger for me. And I'll try not to hate you if you still have your doubts. But I guess I'm looking for someone who is sure. Who knows what's going on and doesn't think that maybe, perhaps, it's all in my mind.

It might be too much to ask, still.

The Leaving Thing

I hate the phrase, "Well, everyone feels that way."

I didn't say they didn't. I was just explaining how I felt. I know others feel the same way. But it's not like you can really fit that in to a conversation without feeling like you're stating the obvious.

I don't know what I'm getting at.

I just... I get attached to people. And I hate it when they leave.

And if I say that to anyone, they say "Well, duh. Everyone feels that way."

But I'm just stating. Getting it out there. I don't want to start all over again. Please don't make me. But there's no choice.

This is how life goes.

It's for the best, really.

Still sad, though. I could really use a person to talk to right now. Someone who knows my story, so I don't have to explain and back track to where all this relates.

Je suis une ananas

I remember way back in grade 4 or 5, when we first started learning French, we watched this silly little french kid's show.

I had already known one word in French since grade 2. "Chat." My brother taught me it by sound, so I always thought it was spelled "Shat" and would wonder why my teachers would mark it wrong. I'd use it whenever I could, only knowing that it meant cat and sounded so much cooler since no one else knew it. The same thing happened with multiplication and fractions- my brother would teach me the basics when he would learn them, and then I'd be so great at them for the first few lessons when we finally got to try them, and then later on... Well, I dropped French in grade 10 (the earliest I could) and I had to go down to college level math in grade 10, too. Funny how things turn out, huh?

Well, the first whole sentence my class got to learn came from this silly show that starred a pineapple. I bet you can guess what the phrase was, especially if you remember watching it as well.

"Je suis un/une ananas!"

Oh what fun we had. We ran around for weeks calling ourselves a pineapple, our friends a pineapple, everyone a pineapple. Even before we learned to conjugate, we'd call other people pineapples by saying "You suis un/une ananas!" or "You are an ananas!" Phrases that would make many a French teacher cringe at the butchering of their beloved language.

But us? We kids? We found it awesome.

And it carried with us. We were all different, and everyone had been the brunt of a cruel joke, and everyone had been on the whacker end of it, through the years (very few people moved out, and very few people moved in, so until middle school (which was a huge shocker for all of us) we were all friends and enemies and knew each other's parents and sometimes grandparents). But no matter how long since that first lesson, if you said "Je suis un/une ananas!" or any of its conjugations, those from our grade way back then would smile, and we'd know.

We could remember the shouts of glee from years past in that one moment.

And sometimes, someone would respond, "Non, tu as un/une ananas!"

And it was on.

I Wish

Today's been a hard day.

I feel like I'd do anything to stay at Terri's again.

But I won't.

I just remember the coyote, sleeping without fear, eating pizza, sitting on her couch. The memories hurt and they sting, and they're the memories I honestly thought wouldn't do this to me.

I kind of feel heartbroken.

I woke up today at 4am to a huge crash of thunder that shook the whole house and continued and continued and continued.

I thought I was going to die. I hadn't heard thunder in so long, and in my disoriented state...

I know my mind shot to the questions it always does when I wake up at such a time: Am I next? Is my mom coming after me? What will she say now? Will I feel like killing myself again?

I don't want to fear my parents anymore. I didn't fear my parents at Terri's, and now it's blocked off to me.

I wish... part of me wishes I never asked for her help. But I don't really mean that.

I just wish it didn't turn out this way. I wish I knew why it did.

I can't take your pushes anymore.

"Where does this go?"

"Um... I don't know."

"Well, there's your mom, why don't you ask?"

"... I'd rather not."


"Ask your mom about it."

"Uhm... She's not in a very good mood so I'd rather not."



"She's going too fast calling out the numbers! I can't keep up! Do something!"

"No! I can't. I wish I could but I can't."

"Why not? Just do it!"

"Because it's just not worth it. She'll either snap at me for being a selfish, impatient bitch or she'll use it against me later."

"How do you even know that if you won't go ask?"

"Because I've been in similar situations before, and this is how it goes!"

"Just do it! My god."

"No! Don't even bring it up, or I could get in trouble."

"Yeah right. You're overreacting."


All. Day. This, all day.

Didn't you hear her snap on me for asking YOUR question about the types of soup?

Didn't you see her throw a knife and two potatoes at the wall after Grandma commented on the knife she was using being too long (it was awkward to handle when you're peeling)?

Don't you see her looking for someone to release her anger on?

Don't you feel that tension?

And if you don't, then can't you just believe me that it's safer to keep quiet, to let her do her thing, than to have to be a pariah in my own house? To be called every name in the book? To be punished by both parents when I have done nothing wrong?

Haven't I told you enough stories? Won't you just finally believe me?

Instead, you insist it's my fault. That this will all get better when I become better, or remove myself entirely. You insist that the stories I tell are exaggerations.

I'm honestly tired of being your friend. Because that isn't what you are to me at all.

I give up.

And thanks, by the way. I asked you not to make a big deal about her calling too fast, and then you flung it in her face the second you had a chance. I told you. I begged you to just let it go. And now she's most likely going to project that opinion onto me, though I didn't say anything, and use it against me in an argument.

I begged you to believe me, so many times. Each time, you pushed it away. I didn't want to do this. I didn't want to have to go through this again. But I'm stronger now, and if I want to keep healing, I can't have you around, doing this to me.


I have been to two funerals in my life. Both of them for people I hardly knew. My grandfather on my mother's side, who was abusive to his immediate family and intimidating and scary to me (my only memory of him from when I must have been 4 or 5 is a big man cloaked in shadows with my uncle Bill trailing behind him as he walks by me playing in the kitchen and disappearing down the stairs). My aunt's husband who was kind, but my mom disliked her sister and we never really saw them much.

To think of it, they both died in cars. Not in car accidents, specifically, but at lights. I think my grandfather was in a car with my uncle Bill and had a heart attack while driving, and they might have been in a crash. My aunt's husband was at a stoplight and had a stroke or heart attack of some kind.

I've always been kind of removed, you know? It's an uncomfortable feeling. You don't even know what you're feeling, or what you're supposed to feel.

Then one of my friends' friends died. I knew him a little, mainly from playing cards in the library once with everyone. What was I supposed to say? Feel? I felt scared, lost... I think I cried a little but I didn't know if I was supposed to cry if I'd never really, truly known him.

I've got a lot of uncles. Not all of them are really uncles. More like good friends of the family. I think we've got three or four. We had three or four. One of them got pushed out of the circle by my mother.

One of them, my Uncle Ken, came from England. Has such a heavy English accent that half the time I can't even understand what he's saying.

He was lying on the floor of his apartment for three days, unable to move. The Superintendent found him and called 911 today. He was sent to Mac and then his condition deteriorated and now he's heavily assisted by a breathing machine.

His son can't fly over till the 22nd. That's 19 days away. I don't think anyone believes he'll survive that long.

I wasn't ever really close to my uncle Ken. Or, perhaps I was when I was young, but not anymore. I remember once he got me a doll from England with wide eyes that blinked and moved depending on how you tilted the head. I believe that doll gave me nightmares. He also often brought back small double-decker buses painted red with real advertisements around them.

We invited him over every Boxing Day, Christmas, and Christmas Eve, and we took him with us for Thanksgiving. He was invited over at other times too. But he was always a step removed from everything, and I wanted to include him but couldn't understand him with his accent, so I'd just make it worse.

He was kind though. Always kind.

I don't really know how to feel.

A Memory: Coffee, Pennies and Duct Tape

You know what I remember?

The day before my friend's birthday.

Me and M and S all went to get his present. It involved four of those large cans of Maxwell coffee grind, and 15$ in pennies.

We had the bank tellers laughing at our intentions, but they exchanged the money happily.

We carted it back to my house, or I think perhaps my brother picked us up. S went home, M stayed.

We found a box. A huge box. Set it on my bed and taped all the seams. lined the inside with tin foil, scotch tape, and duct tape. Messed up a thousand times. We didn't know what we were doing exactly, just that we were doing it and we were making it up along the way.

Grouped pennies together in ones, twos, threes, and sometimes fours and wrapped them in little pieces of siran wrap, because we were worried the copper would get into the coffee and make it toxic, or the copper would end up doing some weird coffee-oxidizing thing and mess everything up.

Tossed the covered pennies into the bottom of the box. Opened all the cans of coffee, poured them out in the box, re-lidded them and wondered what to do. Fit them all in at the top, completely obscuring the sea of coffee grinds. Closed the box. Taped it up.

But that wasn't enough.

I forget all the layers. There was a layer of plain scotch tape. another layer, I think, of siran wrap and/or tin foil, and then an impressive double layer of heavy duty duct tape that made so much noise, my father told us to quiet down. Which only made us laugh louder.

Said good bye, waved her off from my front porch. Stared at the box defiantly. Wondered where the heck I was going to put it.

Got my brother to drive us to the party. Lugged the box in and down a deadly flight of stairs.

The party sucked. I remember that. Awkward, because of a break up, and I found no point in Guitar Hero. Still don't, honestly. Or at least, no point for me. I rather dislike it.

But the presents opening.

He cheated, our friend. Took his pro exacto knife to the box and had it open in seconds. But we weren't done. He saw the cans. Laughed, said thank you, then picked one up. Empty. And beneath it, darkness.

Laughter. Hanging off each other, Me and M and S could hardly stand up. The look on his face was priceless, though I can't remember it now. He picked up each one. "Well... at least I won't need to buy coffee for a while!" he joked. But that still wasn't all.

We told him to dig. Dig like he'd never dug before, till he felt something. So he dug, and pulled out a poorly-designed sack half filled with coffee grinds despite our best efforts. Opened it up, saw the pennies.

"There's about 14,997 in there. We think we lost about 3," we explained. "Good luck unwrapping them all and getting people to take it."

For the next two months, M was volunteering at the school store. Our friend paid for everything he bought in rolls of 100 pennies.

He told us the actual total. Something like 14,987 or so.

Others thought it was too cruel, but this was payback for a trick present on S earlier that month. Us four, we got it. We understood it. And we laughed the truest and the hardest at it. He got us back, of course, but that was part of the fun.

It never happened again, but I like to think I'll always remember this memory.

The Things I'd Tell You

I want to tell you that I'm scared about the possibility of a fine to my mother. I'm scared of what's going to happen if it goes through. If I'm even going to survive that.

I want to tell you that some days I don't eat. That I'm working on fixing it, but still there are days that I don't feel like I deserve it.

I want to tell you that I'm scared of asking for your support, because I don't know what the cost is. And though I'd love to ask, to have someone hug me again, I just can't handle the downfall. The way you go when things look up for me, and the urgency isn't on anymore, and there's finally no pressure saying you have to do this. Only, "Do you really want to help her?"

You won't ever say the truth. And I want to believe what you say with all my heart, but there it is.

Because when I can finally stand strong, everyone seems to think I don't need support anymore.

And I'm here wanting to tell you that you're wrong.

But I can't bring myself to.


I guess it's kind of sad to say that I'd hate my father if he wasn't my father.

But you know what's really sad?

When I realize that I wouldn't hate him. Because if I wasn't his daughter, he wouldn't treat me as bad as he does.

He doesn't treat anyone else like this.

Should I take it as flattery? That I'm special?

If this is what special is, special sucks.

Special is also such a weird word. I mean, LOOK at it.

No Excuse.

I basically yelled at my e-learning teacher over e-mail.

I was stressed and angry and upset, and she was being extremely unhelpful and constantly made things either too vague (to the point where everyone did something completely different) or too complex (often after everyone had done the assignment, she'd fix the vagueness and make it so specific everyone had to change their work). I'd had enough. I wanted to quit.

I could make excuses all day. I could post some of my rants. I could tell you about how a girl who I'd been nothing but nice to had snapped at me today for very little reason. How my mom is sliding back into that spot where everything explodes. I could excuse, excuse, excuse myself.

But that doesn't make what I did right.

Immediately after I sent my final e-mail (in a long line of anger-filled replies to her unhelpful answers and ignorance of my pleas), I was determined to quit.

And she flipped.

Not flipped like my parents do when they blow up and get angry and attack me.

But flipped, as in switched. As in suddenly she was interested in what was going on and what homework I had from other classes and how stressed I was. And she got helpful.

A few things were sorted out, etc.

But I wasn't done.

Because I couldn't let this all be resolved without me saying that I was sorry.

So I apologized. I told her I was sorry, that I was stressed and angry but that was no excuse for yelling at her like I had, and that no one deserves to be yelled at. And I apologized again.

I meant every word.

And you know, those are two things that my parents never do. They never say they're sorry- they push it away, or act as if it's all over, nothing more needs to be said, or they buy or do something. But they never actually apologize.

And if you can't apologize, how can you mean a single word, let alone them all?

I didn't want to apologize at first- or a part of me didn't. The prideful part. The part that says "Why not just do what your parents do and brush it off?" But there was another part that knew that what I'd done was wrong, and made me see that I should, and had to, apologize.

I'm glad the better side won out.

Don't Just Be Curious.

I never said that I didn't want to talk about it.

It's just that no one has asked anything past "How's it going?"

Anyone can ask "How's it going?"

It takes someone who cares to push farther and say "There's something seriously wrong, what is it, because I care about you and I don't want you to hold this all inside. Please tell me what is really going on."

But perhaps I expect too much?


It's hard.

If everything goes as it should, if there is any right in this world, if everything is "righted," then my mom should be sued. Should be fined. Should have to pay so-much money. Because she is not blameless. She knew the unsafe practices going on and did nothing about them. Furthermore, she tried to hide them.

So if everything goes as it "should," good vs. evil and good wins... My mom should "suffer."

Simple. Except, no. If everything goes as it "should," good vs. evil, I will feel the brunt of it. I, who have done nothing, will be subject to the aftermath of it all. I will suffer abuse from my parents because of it.

I'm an advocate for doing the right thing. Fairness in all things.

And then this happens.

Maybe this is why the world isn't fair- because fairness can lead to unfair consequences, and unfairness can lead to fair consequences.

I don't know who to root for, so I'm just going to bury myself in blankets and wish for it all to be a terrible nightmare.

Burn It Down

Here it goes again.

The downfall.

That feeling when you're in the car and you drive up and down hills. Butterflies, but the deadly kind.


But this time, it's worse. Or it's a different brand of the same old bad.

I see everything falling to pieces already. I see the aftermath that I can't stand. I can see the slippery slope, the tears, the pain.

In part, because of a severed hand. An accident. Bad luck.

I'm terrified. But this is just the beginning.

I enjoyed the peace and happiness while it lasted. It's just hard to go from being on a high, seeing potential in everything, laughing and smiling and eating alright... To this. Seeing the brown grass and the winter-bare trees for what they are now, not what they'll be tomorrow. And being as messed up as before.

I just want to tear it all down now. Skip the suspense. The sooner it's all destroyed, the sooner we can fix it.

I'm not looking forward to the next month and a half. Because I think it will be that long until things turn back to normal. Unless everything really does go to hell.

Then it won't be normal for years.

I don't want to live through that.


You know, I used to believe a lot of things.

I used to believe that if you were a good person, good things would happen to you. Bad things would stay away.

I thought tomorrow was assured. Promises were kept. There's a happy ending at all of this.

Needless to say, I never ever thought that I'd hurt this much.

I didn't know that sometimes the worst thing that can happen is easier to get through than something "small."

I thought there would always be a way. That plans, if you made them, were laws. I thought that nothing could stop me.

I thought if a wall dared pop up in my way, I'd smash it down. I'd be like one of those heroes in books. I'd conquer everything with a slash of a sword or a wave of a wand.

But wall after wall after wall, and now all I can do is look at it, whisper "Oh," and turn around and try to find another path.

It is ever so tiring.

I didn't believe in bad things happening to me.

But that belief, held for years, came crashing down quite suddenly. And it still crumbles in my hand every time I try to grasp it.

I don't know what to do.

I'm going to go drown myself in chocolate.

You stop. But just for now. You promise yourself that you can continue on tomorrow. You say, "Not too long, my darling" to convince yourself not to grasp onto everything with a vise-like grip. So you let go. You breathe. You smile. You don't mind that it's temporarily gone, because soon it will be back. You'll be able to pick up your paintbrush, your pen, your bridle. You'll be able to return in not too long.

But then it slips from your fingers.

And you start to wonder why. Why you once felt so assured. Why it has been taken away. Why to every situation.

Even more, you wonder if you had any such grip on it in the first place.


I hate having the flu.

Second year in a row. I rarely got the flu before this.

My fever finally broke after three-four days, sometime between trying to go to the bathroom then not being able to get back because everything was tipping and I couldn't breathe (1:20 am) and my mom waking me up for the Advil (7:28 am). I got about 5 and a half hours of sleep, by the time I finally sank into oblivion. That's the most continuous sleep I've gotten since this started. Possibly the most sleep, period.

I'm going to go back to sleep, since nothing is on worth watching this early in the morning, and it's a day off from school.

Fake It or Make It.

I hate myself sometimes. I really do. I despise myself, I think I'm needy and selfish and stupid and I ruin lives. I ruin everything, really.

I try not to think this way, I really do. But it's hard.

I want to destroy everything with my hands before I can do it with just being me.

I hate the possibility of pity. I hate the possibility of obligation.

Do I stay honest and possibly put the person on the other end in an awkward position of answering, or do I lie. Keep it all inside.

I feel like I'll destroy it all either way.

Dust Yourself Off

You know what is so heart-lifting at the same time it crushes you so completely?

Heading to the Sage Camp Friday, I sit beside a woman and chatting with her between long periods of silence, as we'd never even seen each other before. All of the sudden, I get a text. I think it's from Jenni as I've been freaking out to her for the past hour and a half. But no. I see my barn's name. It's Terri.

(I keep it as the professional name for possible excuse purposes, if you wanted to know.)

I'm hit with what else I could be doing instead of heading to an unknown location and unknown everything. I could have asked to stay at her place. I could be at home now, alone for my parents would have headed down to the cottage.  I could be getting ready to muck out stalls the next day.

Why is Terri texting me? And here it is, word for word:

"Good luck with your weekend retreat! Hope it goes well!"

 And all I can think of now is how this person who isn't related to me, has no reason to care about where I am or what I'm doing or even how I am doing, does care. While my own flesh and blood don't honestly give a damn to know, and if they did, there would be war. Furthermore, Terri remembered. I talked to her about it all of twice, once two weeks ago, and once the week before that.

I felt lonely and grateful and wanted and hated all at once.

I said something like thanks and told her I was nervous, and she replied with:

"Don't be nervous just be your pleasant polite self!" [sic]

Which makes me a little more confident and happy because she knows what my parents say- pleasant and polite are the last words they'd use to describe me though I try so hard.

It broke me apart and held me together at the same time. Weird how that can happen, huh?

Pieces of the Impossible

I don't think you understand how badly I want to go back there. It feels like a place I belong. But it's so far away. So far, it's impossible to stay.

Part of a dream. A piece of a wish.

Oh, if I could. If I could.

Strength, Comfort

Truth is, since the night I broke, I've been coasting.

Or, that's how I see it. In a way.

You don't know how strong you really are until being strong is the only thing left.

And I haven't really had to be as strong as I've had to be in the past. But I know that this lull, this support, it all can't last.

So do I stand up and be stronger, be more like that person I was when I had to be, so I'm ready for the fall? Or should I enjoy this little comfort for as long as it lasts?

Your Lost Right


You don't get to know where I've been all day.

You don't get to know where I've gone for the night.

You don't get to know how I feel or how I'm holding up, if ever you ask.

You don't get to know.

Because as far as I am concerned, you cut all right to know what's going on when you told me you don't care what goes on anymore.

So yeah.

It's none of your damn business.


I froze until I couldn't feel my ears: 4 

Stalls I mucked: 10
Times I swear I sprained my wrists all over again: 6
Of my candy stash that Paul ate, thinking they were Terri's: 1/2
Allergic reaction to the hay: 1 immediate, 1 delayed.
Pieces of straw blown down my shirt: too many to count.
Times I realized that white boots aren't the greatest to wear while mucking out stalls: 7
Cursed the cold both outwardly and inwardly: 25+
Sank so deep in the snow it went over the tops of my boots (which are quite tall): 3

Paperwork that I got done: 0

+Took a bus I've never taken before in the middle of the dark to a place I didn't know the location of.
+I'm kind of in a lot of pain right now...

Times I got told I'm a life saver: 3
Times I overheard someone telling someone else I was a life saver: 2
Times I got told I was doing a good job: 3
Times I heard "thank you": 10+
Times I smiled: I think I rarely stopped smiling.
People I talked to that I normally wouldn't: 5

+Got to eat pizza with Terri.
+Learned that Terri loves talk shows and Self-Help shows/books.
+Learned more about Terri's family, like how her grandpa used to make computer programs for himself (to do taxes and more) from scratch, even though computers were a new thing when he was 80.
+Got to hang out with Brianna and Gizmo (Terri's and Paul's dogs)
+Slept pretty well for not being in my own bed. Slept better than I often do, actually.

Times I nearly hyperventilated waiting for this weekend: Several times, every day.
Times I nearly backed out: 15+

How glad I am I didn't back out? You can't even imagine.

The best weekend I've had in a long long time.


I hate it when people do things for me because they feel obligated to. Such obligations breed resentment, and I don't want to be a source of that. And I know it's their choice, but don't I get a choice in the matter? Don't I get the choice of whether someone eventually hates me and leaves me, or letting that obligation go and keeping everything together?

It kind of seems, right now, like everything I touch turns into ash.

I don't want to destroy any more ties. I don't want to make those who I care for the most hate me.

Is the answer, then, to keep away? Keep a safe distance? Don't let anyone get too close or know too much?


Only one near-panic attack today.

It's getting better, finally.

I really don't want another panic attack. I don't know if you can even imagine how much I don't want to have another. Not here, not where no one cares and no one knows and no one listens, where there's only people who bring it all about.


Sometimes, even when everything is falling apart around you, and there's a dark thing chasing you through the streets, you just don't want to run anymore. You don't want to hear the noise your shoes make as they pound the pavement. That's when you have to decide what to do- keep running, hide, or stop and face it all.

These Heroic Tales

Do heroes and heroines in novels and movies ever feel this way?

Like it's all too much. And the battle isn't over. But all you want to do is step back, let other people fight it. Or give up entirely.

It's not that you want to give up, per se. It's not that you want the enemy to rule. It's that you just don't want to fight anymore. You're scared, sad, and tired.

Does bravery ever leave them completely? As if a huge gust of wind has gone right through you and pulled everything out, scattering it all like leaves?

When the enemy has the treasure in their grip, what keeps the heroine fighting for it, no matter how impossible the task?

I've never fought any dragons or witches or armies. I don't know these answers.

But maybe I have. Maybe I have fought dragons and witches and armies in a different form.

Maybe heroes and heroines put one step in front of the other, like everyone else.

But I wish I had a real sword and was fighting a real dragon, no matter how big. I imagine it'd be a lot easier than this.

Telling The Silent Truth

Deep Breath.
I know I'm not innocent.

I just know I don't deserve all this.


This is what this family does. We tear each other down with words, and then we ignore with silence that speaks volumes. And then we make it okay with money. We buy expensive gifts, we treat with take out. And all the way, we're digging each other a deeper hole that no one can refuse.

They say that you make your bed and you have to lie in it. But what if, while you're making your bed, someone hands you a blanket laced with spikes? One that you can't refuse, because if you do, they'll terrorize you as you lie in the bed you make?

Is it still your fault? Because you chose the poison that would kill you slowly, rather than the one that would off you right there?


I don't want to be like them. I don't want to turn out this sick way.

They say communication is a two way street. Same with so many other things. But what if one of them barricades both sides? What if they walk down one side, and as you try to say hi, they look past you like you're not even there?

What happens then? And who's fault is it?

What if one person is armed with guns and bombs, can you blame the other for not daring to speak? For not daring to attempt tearing down the barricades? For closing the doors on the street and holing up in the semi-safety of her own domain?


You walk around the house.
Why don't you talk to me?

You pass me in the halls.
Why won't you talk to me?

You ignore me in the kitchen.
Why shouldn't you talk to me?
You hand me my mail.
Why can't you talk to me?

You laugh along with her.
What will it take for you to talk to me?


It's funny. We're such a broken family. I hide in my room with a stash of food. My father hides downstairs, rearranging his work room and occasionally surfacing to make nice. And my mother lounges in the living room with the TV, acting her part as the offended queen.

And I'm blamed for it all. For us being broken.

We got here together.

And they don't see it.

Or perhaps they do, and it's just easier to use a scapegoat and live in denial.

Neither one is very impressive.

What keeps me awake

I wonder if I'll sleep tonight.

I wonder if my mother will knock down my door at five in the morning and begin to scream at me.

I wonder if she'll snap and choke me.

I wonder what insult she'll spit out next.

I wonder if I'll wake up to doors slamming.

I wonder if my mother will turn on the animals.

I wonder if I'm next.

So, I doubt I'll be getting much sleep.


Words are dangerous. They set fires, they explode. They maim and they kill.

But it's not all their fault.

Minds. Thoughts. Beliefs. Intent. Those are just as dangerous. But we can't start blaming those things. No.

Papers, hidden under my mattress and in folders stashed in obscure places. Filled with words. Those can start a fire, destroy everything. But only if certain people find them.

But maybe they've started a fire already. A fire to change. To be strong. To turn the tables.

Maybe words really are dangerous. In many ways.

But no matter what, I'm not going to let words tear me down anymore. I'm going to use them to build me up, to a place where those that hurt me now can't touch me.

Time to change my world.

Gangster Shirts

"Don't tell me I don't look gangster in this shirt!"
"Are you wearing the penguin shirt that says 'Melt Hearts not Icebergs'?"
"No. 'Give Monsters Cupcakes.'"
"Actually, that might be even more gangster."
"I thought so too..."

What You've Seen

Don't look at me with those wise eyes,
I don't know if you're telling me the truth or just elaborate lies.


You know that feeling when the world seems to be crumbling beneath you, and you're just falling? But you're not. It's your legs. They've just gone fuzzy and numb and then it's like they've disappeared. And through that empty space where they were, your stomach drops, and your heart goes too. Your arms feel semi-detached, and your fingers move if you make the effort, but they don't really feel. And your head has gone silent, but not silent. Like the panic sirens have blurred into some kind of white noise, making it only seem like it's silent.

And there's this feeling coursing through you. You have to do something. You have to move. You have to fix things. Rewind time. Undo. Undo. Undo. But you can't. And that's part of the feeling too. You're just too tired to do anything. There's nothing to do. "Can't" winds through you.

Too much energy. And not enough at all.



There's nothing you can do. Let it go.

Drop it. Watch it float away. Then turn your back to it.

I've never been good at such things...

Reasons Why I Like Sleeping In My Own Bed

1. My melatonin is within reach at all times. So I can generally shut up the voices in my head whenever they get too rowdy.

2. My room does not smell like a mixture of baby and baby formula. It really is a sickening smell.

3. In the bathroom, there is no bunny with two inch nails following me with its eyes, staring at me like it sees right through me while I do business.

4. My house does not usually make unfamiliar and totally creepy sounds that make me believe a serial killer is about to break in and kill me (overlooking the times that I am home completely alone, of course).

5. There isn't anyone living above me, and therefore I do not need to distinguish the footsteps of an upstairs neighbour, and one of a ninja intent on holding me hostage and/or killing me. I know it's a ninja, and I can act accordingly (AKA run out of the house screaming).

6. If there are strange and scary noises, and I don't feel like possibly making a fool out of myself, I have my childhood teddy bear to hold onto. This also applies to times I feel particularly alone in the world, or otherwise depressed. Do not judge me.

7. My windows have blinds that generally cover and hide me from the world and the world from me. Therefore, I can be reasonably sure that no one is looking in on me from outside, watching me ever so intently. And I can be assured that the world does not see me before I have tamed my hair.

8. I have a flashlight that may or may not be contraband. I do not have to use my feeble cell phone light to read a hundred pages when I cannot sleep or cannot be bothered to turn on the main light and be blinded (and otherwise signal my presence to aforementioned serial killers, ninjas and creepy bunnies). This is actually a big point. If you don't believe me, try reading so many pages with a dim cell phone light that shuts off every minute or so.

9. When I can't get to sleep because my hair or face feels too greasy or dirty (which it may or may not really be, but I can be very focused on these things when I'm trying to sleep), I can simply hop in the shower and fix all that. Other people tend to take note of this, though, and either look at you funny or don't really think it's necessary. It is. Trust me.

10. If I happen to be starving in the middle of the night, or when I wake up, I generally know where to scavenge for food, in the off chance we have any. I don't really have to spin around in a circle, opening every drawer and cupboard only to find utensils and china in the oddest of places, and simply settle on water and questionably aged crackers to dine on.

The Locket

I remember the night my dad came home from a business trip to Vancouver and Denver.

He brought home necklaces for me and my mom. And not just any old necklace, not something tacky or gaudy. Lockets. Gold. Hearts. On gold chains so fine you'd fear they'd break by just picking them up.

Mine. Three silver flower heads on one side of the heart, like poppies or... petunias? Engraved with three leaves on each side of the flowers. On the back side of the locket, a ripple effect. The whole thing is so thin you'd not expect it to be able to hold even a picture. But in it, there's four slots for pictures. One on each side of the locket, and then a smaller heart in the middle.

I think I put it on right away. And when I went to sleep, I put it delicately into the box it came in.

I wanted to wear it to school so badly. I wanted to show everyone what my dad got me. Even though we fought a lot. I wanted to show that I wasn't completely helpless, loveless. That despite everything I was, my dad still loved me.

But I didn't want to lose it. To have the chain snap like it looks like it could at any moment. I didn't want to even chance it, for it to be lost in the hustle and bustle of school life.

And I remember that a few days later, my dad approached me. He said, with annoyance in his voice, that if I didn't like his gift and I wasn't going to wear it then I might as well give it back to him so he could sell it or something.

I know I fought against it. I said that I liked it, asked him to please not take it away, and that I was just scared of the chain breaking.

I don't know if he understood. If he felt bad. If he even believed me. I don't remember what he said. I think he just said "Fine," and walked away.

I'm staring at it now, you know? And I don't know what to make of it. I've only worn it once or twice. I'd forgotten about it, really.

Maybe I'll wear it again someday soon.

Maybe I won't.

I think I have to figure out if I'd be wearing it for me, or because I want them to notice it and for something to finally give around here.

I wonder if the chain is really as frail as it seems...


I took a nap before my mom came home. Set my alarm for twenty minutes. When it went off, my mom still wasn't home, so I set it for another twenty.

My mom came in a few minutes later, so I cancelled all the alarms and sat up to start reading.

Maybe she'll check on me. Maybe she has a solution. Maybe she didn't ignore my texts, and was coming to console me. Tell me it's alright. Encourage me.

She didn't even come to my door until a half hour later, when she decided to go up to go to the bathroom. She didn't ask me anything about the texts or how I was feeling or anything.

This has got to stop. This hope. This need.

They're not changing. This is them.

Sleep is more important than them. Those that don't care.

But maybe I can fake it.

I begin by saying the truth. And how I feel. And how broken everything is. And I intend to continue on, telling you what I want to do, and why.

But then I stop. I click END. "Are you sure you want to proceed? All data will be lost."

I pause, and then click okay. Close everything down.

Because I've just remembered that you don't want to hear from me like this.

Broken is no good.

My words are no good until I am good.

And I don't think I'll ever be.

The Small Things

And it's the little things that tear us down.

The bus is a minute early, or a minute late.

The hair cut you've just gotten isn't at all what you wanted.

They've run out of your favorite flavor ice cream at the store.

The things that, in the long run, won't really matter.

But for you, they do. That one thing means so much more than it seems. Something bigger than everyone says it should.

And no one really gets it, do they?

And when you try to explain, they look at you like you're crazy. How could something so small, so insignificant, mean so much?

Because the big things are too vast to hold everything snug. The small things, though, you'll fill them to bursting. They won't drift around then. They won't have space to grow and sneak up on you.

Until something tears, something develops a crack. Something goes wrong, like it's apt to do but you were hoping it'd all just skip you.

Then the smallest things become the biggest missiles.

How It Ends

We used to text a hundred times a day. Back and forth, neverending. Late into the night.

Now we go days without hearing from each other. If I never said a word, would you ever talk to me again?

I'm too scared to find out.

What is this? Why is this? Are we that good of friends that we no longer need to talk constantly, or have we fallen apart already?

Is it nothing? Or is it something?

Is it something huge? Something that could crush us? That could destroy everything, leaving only a fine dust?

Will days turn into weeks? Will weeks then turn into months?

Is this my fault, or just how it goes?

How it ends?


They don't believe me. Because no crazy person would admit they're crazy. And it's the same with a lot of things.

And maybe that's the problem.

Because once someone breaks out and says their fear, it's likely to be in such a way that it sounds like an offhand comment. Because they're scared. And then no one takes them seriously.

Who would actually admit such a thing if it were true? And in such a way?

Because they know. They know something is wrong, but they don't know how to say it. And they want help, but don't know how to ask it. And they know that, if they stay silent, no one will open their eyes to realize it.

So they whisper it. They let it out, hoping that someone catches on. Thinking that someone has got to catch on and do something, anything.

But no one does.

So they retreat back, hugging themselves. Waiting for someone to take their silence as more than just silence. Knowing that it won't happen.


How is it that it seems everyone I know is growing up faster than me, when I'm the one who has been trying to "grow up" all this time?

Going to university, moving out...

Everything I've ever wanted. Yet I can't reach it. Not yet. Not now.

This is terrible.

Silence in a Jar

It's just that I thought I wouldn't have to be silent again.

I thought that I'd finally thrown that away, after all these years.

I thought I found someone who I could talk to no matter what.

Did I drown them with words?

Is that what I did? Did I tell too much? It it all wash over them, again and again?

I don't know what to do.

I don't know what to say.

But I've come to the conclusion that I don't ask questions of which I cannot handle all the possible answers...

So they figure...

Because this is nothing new. I should be used to it. It shouldn't hurt anymore. It should be background noise. Tune it out. Act like it isn't happening. Take the next step, it can't be that hard.


"Good job!" she says to me as she looks through my grad pictures that have finally arrived. It's such an odd thing to say, because I didn't do anything except smile.

Is that why she's saying 'good job'? Because I've acted the part of a perfect child long enough to be snapped up by a camera. And now there's proof that she can pass around, gloating about how I'm the perfect child of a perfect upbringing, while I sit alone in my room wondering when the next hurricane will come.

How Things Go

If I say it, no one cares.

If I hide it, no one will find it.

This question again.

I thought I had said good bye.

This too shall pass

Because eventually, you're not allowed to express your feelings in prose, because that's for children. That's for angsty teenagers that know nothing better.

But sometimes, you can only explain your pain as your heart being put through a shredder.

What to do

They don't like me for who I am, and I can't stand being who I'm not. But it happens, again and again. And I just can't take it.

I'm hopeless and overwhelmed and stressed and I don't know how longer I can do this.

I don't want to deal anymore. I shouldn't have to. This isn't how it's supposed to unwind.

When it comes down to it...

It's not that I can't do this.

Maybe a little.

But it's that I shouldn't have to. This isn't how it's supposed to be.

This isn't how it's supposed to turn out.

There's a difference between having to and wanting to.

Have to. Have to. Have to.

Have to. Have to. Have to.

I want to stop it, but I can't.

If I think about it too much, I don't think I can do this.

Future Aspirations

Gotta love being told that you're going to grow up to be a "big bitch" by your cousin. All because you argued against her opinion that you were the problem in the family.

But I'd be lying if it didn't make me wonder if they're all right.

I'm not healed enough to totally discount her...

Not the way it goes

I've been told repeatedly that if I'm not doing anything wrong, if I'm innocent, don't worry. I won't be accused of anything. And if I am, I will be proven innocent.

But it's like my life is on repeat. Do you know how many times I've been accused of something I didn't do, and it has never been looked into further? Too many to count.

The incident that comes to mind is me in 3rd grade when, having done nothing to another girl, she whipped up some tears and ran to the teacher spouting lies, telling the teacher that I'd done all these things that she was, in fact, doing to me.

The teacher believed her. Nothing I said made a dent, it only condemned me further for "lying" and "continuing the lie."

And I know that it wasn't the first time. It was just the time that I found out whoever cries first gets more credibility. I actually tested this theory, and it worked.

Some people call me paranoid and silly when I explain to them that I don't like going into shops because I think someone is going to accuse me of stealing. Or call me annoying or my actions unnecessary when I do all I can to make sure what I'm doing and not doing is clearly defined.

But this has been happening to me my whole life. Maybe other people get the privilege of being seen as innocent when they are, but I haven't had such a luxury.

When I let my guard down, this is what happens. And even when my guard is up, it still happens.

There's no winning for me.

Gotta love working your butt off.

So apparently I fake all the surveys at work. And I never actually do any work.

I really don't know what to say anymore. I'm tired of this stuff happening to me.

Like I'd be stupid enough to fake surveys. Give me some credit.


Some days, I need to be told, assured, that I can do anything I put my mind to.

Others, I need to be assured that I can do this specific thing. Because Anything is too broad of a word.

There are too many strings attached to Anything.

It doesn't get any easier...

I know I've got to do this. I've got to stick with it. Keep going.

Because, once again, Summer can't last forever.

Winter will come again, sooner and harsher than before.

It's the same poison I've drank before. But I keep hoping beyond hope that it's not.

That it's different.

Like it's a cure disguised as a poison.

But it's not. So I have to throw the poison away. Throw it far away.

Who would've thought it'd be so hard? Who would've thought that I'd be doing this all over again?

I always secretly swore never again.

But oh, how high the stakes are now.

Shake it up

I'm everything you never wanted me to be.

And it's the greatest thing I could ever have done.

Stupid Cell Phones.

I hate hate hate cellphone plans and companies.

And the cost of everything.

And how complicated it all is.

GAH! I feel like chucking the computer at the wall. But I love my little darling, and it's important that I keep it in as pristine of condition as I can...


Flickering Resolve


After I get it all figured out. After I gather up all my conviction and my hurt and my pain, and I'm ready to push it in the direction I need to go, everything falls to pieces.

Outsiders would see it as everything getting better.

But it's temporary. I know it is. But it's hard all the same.

You know, whenever I think of my mom, I remember all the words she's said over the years. I remember her furies at nothing. When I try to pull up a happy memory, I get stuck with when I finally convinced her to teach me to cook, and every question I had was met with annoyance.

And then it gets funny. Because then we move onto my dad, and any of you who have been there with my previous blog know how surprising this is. Because for the past, what? Seven years? I've been at war with my dad, to the point of him throwing me into a bedpost.

But when I think of him, what do I see? Even in the midst of that huge war?

I see me, as a little girl, on a family hike back when we used to do things as a family and not as individuals. I see the steeply sloping hill; dirt, loose stones everywhere, all sliding down before me. And I see my dad holding my hand and I hear him tell me "Just take it one step at a time. You'll be okay."

And it makes me cry.

After everything, you know? No less than making my life hell.

And then helping my mother make my life even more hellish that the past seven years can't compare. They just can't.

After everything.

And one thing, one nice thing, tears my resolve to pieces and scatters it in the wind.

Stupid shelf. Stupid me. Stupid them for digging me a deeper ditch.

I don't owe them anything, but why does it feel like I owe them everything?

When I Speak Out, What Do You Hear?

I don't need silence. Especially from my friends.

I don't need to be ignored, passed over like I've said nothing. Especially to those who I reach out to.

I need support.

But I guess that's too much to ask from some people.

Happy Birthday to Me~


My present to myself? Going to the OSC alone (which is in Toronto) since everyone else bailed.

Awesomest Day Ever. Even though I got lost quite a number of times.

Did you know people used to (and still) make fake mermaids by sewing the top half of a monkey to the bottom half of a fish? Gruesome. I'll have nightmares for a long time (there was an example there and everything.).

Nineteen. Feels good.

And I also had my first (official) driving lesson. I ended up shedding a few tears (one from each eye, part from being scared to death and the other from laughing so hard. Seriously.)

Didn't have to make my birthday cake (which is going to work, since it seems only the good children get a family get together for their birthday. Honestly? I don't mind not having one) but it won't be as good as mine, of course.