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.