Grateful

In light of Remembrance Day this past weekend, and all the talk of being grateful for those who gave their lives, it got me thinking about all the things for which I'm grateful. Here's what I have so far:

-Hot showers
-The ability to read and write
-My wonderful parents
-The incredible friends who stand by me and support me
-My man, also known as my sometimes better half, who has done more for me in the past year than I will ever be able to thank him for
-All the wonderful writers, storytellers, book designers, and illustrators out there who give birth to works of art every day
-My own personal talents and gifts
-The plentiful food in my life
-Books in every shape and form
-My nieces and nephews and the joy they bring to my life
-My animals, who have saved my life more than once
-The days when my health is good. Never ever take your health for granted. "When the well is dry, you know the worth of water."
-Clean water and the abundance of it in my life
-Four seasons
-My bed
-The safety of my country, my home
-My new pills, which have given me a new lease on life and the ability to find happiness every day
-Happiness, those moments of joy that you experience during the day and you realize how wonderful the moment is
-Rainy days
-The fact that I have a job (well, two now I suppose)
-The fact that I'm able to study
-Barack Obama
-The internet
-How easy it is to survive right now
-Flowers
-My home and its many comforts
-My large yard
-Nature and its many wonders
-Being in love
-Learning new things
-Being alive (after all)

What else could I add to this list?

Talent, and lots of it

This week, I'd like to post about my friend Glenny. Glenny is trying to get into the Guinness Book of World Records, and I think he should. Soon, you'll see why, and you'll think he should too.

Glenny is part of our maintenance team at the hotel where I work. I've known him for over a year now, and he never ceases to amaze me. He suffered from depression for a long time, and to help get him through it, he turned to art. This week's post will feature some of the items he displays at the hotel, and when he makes new items, I'll be posting them everywhere because they're incredible. I'll also be taking some pictures of the drawings he's made. All of the creations you're about to see are made out of cardboard. Yep, cardboard. Like cereal boxes and recycled items. Eco-friendly AND awesome.

He's also decided that if people want certain things made, he will take commissions. You can contact me for more information, and I'll speak to him about it. He does not have Facebook or Email for now, but he will soon. If you want one of your very own Glenny Creations, just let me know.

For now, take a look at some of the FEW things he's done for the hotel.

Meet Glenny:

This is R2D2 (in case you don't know anything about Star Wars). R2 was in our front lobby for a long time, but has been relocated to the basement because fascinated kids were damaging it. It stands about 3 feet tall, and is made entirely out of cardboard.

This is Glenny standing next to R2. Glenny is about 5'6" or so, so this gives you an idea of how big the robot is.

This is what he calls his Avatar Spaceship. It hangs above our Front Desk Area.

This is one of my favourite pieces: Space City. He imagined it as a city that hangs among the clouds.

I'll be taking some more pictures soon so you can see how detailed the city actually is.

(OR you could come check it out yourself at the Super 8 Hotel in Campbellton, NB!) 

Space City from the side.

This is what I call the Gleninator Spaceship. A spaceship made out of cardboard which he then coloured.

We no longer have this one, as he gave it away to a very lucky little boy.

Not only does Glenny make spaceships and other sci-fi memorabilia, he also makes regular things into robots.

For example, here is his Robotic Grizzly Bear.

 Here is a closer look at his face.

Here is his Robotic Lizard. It hangs in our front lobby and is really cool. Once again, all made out of cardboard.

This is The Toy Soldier. Glenny made this a few years back, and made it into the Tribune with it. 

I find he looks like King Lear. 

He stands 9 feet tall, and is made 100% out of recycled cardboard.

This is a closer look at his smiling face. Please note the details of every single accessory.

Here are his big feet and cute shoelaces.

Here is (a rather dark) picture of Glenny working on his newest project. 

It's a four foot long Star Destroyer.

Here he is putting some detail on the top of the ship.

As soon as it's finished (which should be within the next few days), I'll be posting some new pictures so you can see the end product.

So there you have it. Just a slight glimpse into Glenny's genius with cardboard. There are many more pictures to post, but all in due time. He works really hard and ridiculously long on these projects, so I hope you all take a minute to appreciate them. Feel free to stop by the hotel to see them in person or meet Glenny himself. Hopefully they'll blow your mind and amaze you as much as they amaze me. <3 p="p">

Conundrum

I get so caught up with all the blog posts I want to write, that I end up writing none.
*sigh*

It's been too long, hasn't it?

I hate how natural
a cigarette feels,
the sound of a gun cocking.

Maybe it's because
we all know how to end lives,
not live them.

My Lullaby

As if I needed to provide proof as to how awesome my boyfriend is (I mean, he's going out with me isn't he? Isn't that proof enough of his fantastic taste? haha), I still decided to post this.

For Valentine's Day this year (our first together), he wrote me a song titled "This Lullaby" and he sang it to me after giving me a heart-shaped box of chocolates and an adorable stuffed elephant (named Horton) that sings "Sugar Pie Honey Bunch." Needless to say, I cried like the big baby that I am, and I have since made him play it for me several times, sometimes several times DAILY. I'm sure he must have gotten sick and tired of playing it incessantly for me because this week, he sat down in his recording studio/music room and recorded it for me as part of my Birthday gift, which also included a hot pink Misfits T-shirt, my sexy new bookshelf, and another HUGE stuffed elephant (named Vincent). 

For the record, Horton is named after Dr. Seuss's Horton Hears a Who 'cause I find the stuffed animal looks EXACTLY like him, and Vincent is named after Mr. Van Gogh, of whom I am a huge fan.

Anywho, without any further blabbering and rambling, here is the link for his SoundCloud page, where you can listen to most of his songs, but more importantly, you can listen to my lullaby and hear the awesomeness that is my man, Sylvain :)

<3

http://soundcloud.com/eilendiel/this-lullaby-sylvain-savoie

P.S. Last verse makes me cry EVERY DAMN TIME. Yes, he's real, and he's all mine :D

Cocaine Excerpt

All right, so here's an excerpt/a couple of pieces of my current novel. I've just been calling it "Cocaine" but that won't be the end title. Still working on the perfect name. Anywho, please be kind, and please remember, this shit is copyrighted :p lovelovelove and enjoy!!
P.S. It's still a work in progress and needs A LOT of editing. Just sayin' :)

Cocaine

“Two days straight of cocaine is what I call a weekend. It usually starts on a Tuesday too.” She says as she flicks at the cherry on her joint and pulls her beachsand-hippie hair into her bandana. I just stare at her, unfazed. This is typical Courtenay speak.

“So is that why I haven't heard from you in four days?” I ask. She doesn't answer, just pulls at the fringe on her jeans.

“You should try it sometime Merissa. I think you'd like it. It'd kind of be your thing.” She shuts off her computer and clears off the desk, making room for her drug of the day – plain old weed.

“Are you nuts? Can you imagine me on cocaine? I would get so much done. I'd be like a lesbian times two.” I sit on her bed, shoving clothes, books, magazines and dishes to the floor. She just laughs, nodding, humming to the Beatles song that's floating in from the room next door.

“So how are things with Richard?” I ask, trying to ignore the hardened chunks on the sheets beside me.

“I'm having an affair with a married man.” She says, deadpan, throwing a roach into her already-full ashtray.

“What? How did that happen?”

“Yeah, him and his wife are good friends of mine. I just went to their Halloween party last weekend actually. A couple days before that, we were at his place him and I – I don't know where his wife was – and we were doing lines. He looked at me and said: Are you a brave woman?”

“What? Do people even say that?”

Chuckling in that strange disbelieving voice, she says: “Yeah I know eh? So I'm like, well I could be, why? And he says: I've always wanted to take a line off a naked woman.” She pauses, and rolls her neck with that Joker-like half-smile. “So I took my pants off.”

“You're really serious, aren't you?”

Again, she doesn't answer. Just grinds more weed and starts rolling another spliff. I watch her take out her cherry flavoured Mantra papers and use the makeshift poker (the inside of one of my pens) to readjust her pregnant joint.

“So you want some of this?”

“What?” I ask, snapping out of a daydream and feeling as though that's the only thing I ever say to her.

“You want some of this joint?”

“Nah, I'm still good from the last one. So how come you're doing this to Richard? I mean, he moved in. I thought you actually liked him.”

“I dunno. I think he might actually be gay. We haven't had sex in like four days. It's like he doesn't wanna touch me anymore.” She baptizes the joint and lights it. It's a new lighter. She must've lost her Fear and Loathing one. She was such a wannabe hipster.

“Well how many times have you had sex in the last two months of the relationship?”

“With him? I dunno, maybe seven to twelve.”

“Wow. That sucks.” I pause, remembering the lines of his face and the tiny twitches of his thumb and forefinger. The look of contempt on his face when he sees me. “Is there something wrong with him? Ya know... Like medical?”

“I don't think so. I just think he's gonna go all Elton John on me. Anyway, you better get outta here. I have to get supper ready for Rich.” She gets up from her swivel chair and opens her mini fridge. She takes out two beers and a small container of potato salad.

“Alright, I'll be by in a couple days.” I walk out, still fairly stoned, thinking of this married man. Of Richard. Of what I would do for Courtenay.

            * * *

I couldn't remember a time when my life didn't revolve around Courtenay. I first met her in the second floor lounge of McLeod House the only year I lived in residence. I had been in my room trying to watch Jeopardy when I heard Rush’s Tom Sawyer playing through the wall. Knowing full well that my neighbours were pop princesses, frat boy jocks and lipstick lesbians, and completely devoid of any real taste in music, I went in search of the music’s source. It was coming from the lounge. And it was just her. Not a large group of people celebrating last class bash. Not the beginning of a pub crawl. Just her. The CD was playing in the DVD player; she was lying on the couch with Batman slippers and a George Harrison chakra t-shirt. No pants, just a pair of boy’s gym shorts. She looked up at me, her look turned to shock, and she said: “Holy fuck you’re small.” I am rather short, being only four foot eleven inches, and my first year of university had been a tad rough on my weight. I had lost about 25 pounds, so I was maybe 100 pounds soaking wet. She, however, seemed huge to me, larger than life itself. She was easily six feet, big boned, and she oozed confidence and self esteem. I told her I loved this song. She asked if I had heard any of their other stuff. If I had REALLY listened to Rush, apparently only the greatest Canadian band ever, according to her. I hadn’t. She made room on the couch for me and I sat next to her. She said: “Close your eyes and feel the music through the couch. Listen to the voices in your head.” She hit play. We sat in silence for 92 minutes. Rush played the whole time. Then she spoke: "Hey, I'm Courtenay."

We quickly became inseparable. Not in a lover way, nor a high school best friend kind of way. We just saw each other every day. We did nothing. We did everything. We travelled, listened to music, cooked, did yoga in the mornings, and fucked other people and compared notes. She’s the one who taught me how to eat a pomegranate. I showed her how to do yoga. She introduced me to Bob Marley, I introduced her to Placebo. She’s the one who gave me my first joint, then taught me to roll my own. She’s the first person I’ve ever seen do cocaine. And she’s the first person I’ve ever really fallen in love with.

I remember our trip to Cuba like a ghost in the mirror, even though it’s been almost four years. We sat on these lounge chairs by the beach, sunbathing topless, as she sipped a mojito, and I had a virgin pina colada. I had never been a been drinker. Not till I finished Uni really. She had bought a pack of cheap cigarettes and asked if I wanted one. I had never smoked a day in my life, but I said sure. She had to tell me how to hold it, and how to inhale, how not to choke. The cigarettes were sweet, but she said they weren’t as smooth as cigars. The sun warmed our faces and turned her hair an even dirtier blonde than it was. The water was warmer than the air.

I'm not even sure how we ended up in Cuba. She just showed up at my apartment one day, and said: “I'm going to Cuba for ten days. Wanna come? I need a salsa partner.” I had some time off from school, so I said sure, why not - I had never been to the Caribbean. The smell of jasmine flowers was overwhelming the minute we got off the plane. It took us no time at all to get through security, surprising given Court's tendency to smuggle anything she can get her hands on. We were staying at a Varadero resort called Tryp Peninsula. It was an all expense paid resort, and our room, room 12, had a king size bed, a hot tub, and a big screen TV. One day, we decided to go off the resort, against all warnings from fellow tourists. We took the bus to Havana, and spent the morning and lunch at the local market. She bought a couple tops and I got some necklaces and earrings, in an attempt to be girly, to be attractive. We walked around Havana and visited some local hotspots during the day, and that evening, we went to a local club and salsa danced with everyone. Courtenay got rip-roaring drunk and went home with two cuban boys, and I got a drive from the bar owner. His name was Jorge and he lived near Varadero, so he dropped me off. I wasn't worried about Court. She knew how to take care of herself, and she had been in worse situations. Besides, we were in Cuba, of course she had to have a little fun. Courtenay never travelled anywhere without fucking one of the local citizens. Some people had to visit museums; Courtenay had to try the drugs and have sex with the local culture.

I never minded her drug use. She always seemed smart about it ya know. She always knew when to stop, when she’d done enough. I didn’t see her as an addict. Until she ya know, became addicted, but even then, that was different. She could just stop if she wanted to. I’ve never seen her go through withdrawal. But she enjoyed doing drugs, kind of how someone enjoys a hobby. She epitomized the sex, drugs and rock and roll cliché, but I loved her for it. She was an on-again-off-again vegan, and she’d love to cook me all these exotic vegetarian dishes. Wheat dosa with dal chutney. Moroccan orange carrot salad. Wild mushroom risotto. It was something new and different every couple of days. I usually hated every dish ‘cause I'm a horribly picky eater, but I admired her passion for these strange foods. To me her love of food translated into a love of life. And that was Courtenay. But then she met Richard, and I lost my chance with her. Not sure if I ever had one to begin with really. He hates me 'cause he thinks I'm constantly trying to steal her away from him, which I kind of am, but still. And I hate him 'cause he's a pompous prick. There had to be some way to get her away from him. 

* * *

“So I went to the bar last night and didn't have two of the same drinks, so I feel like all kinds of shit today. I also lost my wallet and I think I may be pregnant again. So I've been sitting on the couch all day downing Ensure and telling Richard I hate him.”

“Is it his?”

“I guess.”

I watch her as she moves around the kitchen, slowly, methodically, calculating. She stirs the homemade macaroni and cheese, debating whether or not she should put ground beef in it. I could see the struggle in her face; her vegetarian side is fighting with her redneck side. Her hair is green now. She says she's decided to tap into her Joker side again, that he hasn't come out in awhile. I keep wondering how far back her Batman obsession goes. She brings her nose to the pot, smelling to see if it's right yet. She dumps three scoops of the pasta onto my plate and then five scoops on hers.

“So what you gonna do about it?”

“I don't know yet.”

“You're not going to keep it, are you?”

“I said I don't know. I think it may be a boy.”

“What? Courtenay, what are you talking about?” I ask, leaning forward on my chair. “What about last time? Why not just get another abortion?”

“No.” And I know by the shortness of her voice that she isn't going to be discussing it anymore for awhile. Which also means that Richard doesn't know about her decision. We eat in silence for a bit. She tries to pick out the meat from her macaroni. I don't know why she bothers putting it in. Out of habit maybe. She still holds her fork with her index and middle finger too, from when she had the broken thumb. Once she gets used to something, she rarely goes back.

“So how's Mr. Married?” I ask casually, hoping to soothe the tension between us. She pushes the food around on her plate, signifying that she's back to her old self.

“Good, just went on a weekend vacation with his wife, then came over to tell me all about it.”

“Well, how was it?”

“Good I guess. Now she's gone camping with her friends. So, yeah.”

“Free game?”

“Yeah, but now Richard has the day off today, so I'm home and miserable.” That pouty face again. Fuck she's beautiful.

“So where is Richard now?” I hadn't seen him at all since I'd been there. I was hoping that maybe he had finally decided to leave.

“He's out buying me more Ensure and more chocolate. I've been having cravings all day.”

“Gotcha.”

I sit back in my chair, my plate still nearly full. I try to imagine Courtenay with kids. Last time this happened, she went to the clinic right away. Asked me to go with her. She was so calm, so passive. It was like she was just going to get groceries. What's so different about this time? She says she feels things, things that she can't explain or see. Things that help her make decisions and change her life. I still couldn't really wrap my head around it all. I blame the gypsy in her.

I get up to help her with the dishes, but she shoos me away. Despite her independent hippie attitude, she's every bit the housewife. I walk around the house, touching the tiny idols and figurines she keeps on the bookshelves and the mantle. A couple magazines litter the end of the couch: High Times, Reader's Digest, Popular Mechanics, a National Geographic from 1968. I sit on the floor in front of her movie collection and read over and over again the titles we've watched together a dozen times. Even my copy of Mario Party 8 for the Wii was here. We don't really play anymore though.

“So what's on your mind Iss? I can hear you over there being small.”

I lean over to look in the kitchen. She hangs up the dish towel and grabs her hoodie. She zips it up, walks into the living room, and settles down on the rocking chair across from the TV. I stare at the Pink Floyd design on her sweater for a second before answering.

“Nothing much. I got that job I was telling you about.”

“So when do you start?”

“Wednesday. Their life drawing class is on Wednesdays, and the one-on-one modelling is done on Fridays.”

She flicks on the TV and stares absentmindedly at the guide screen. “So you only work two days a week?”

“Not really. Those two for sure, but if the students need more time to work on their stuff, we work out a time throughout the week and get together.”

“I think you'll like it. It's kind of your thing.”

“What? Taking off my clothes?”

“No, being looked at.”

Speechless again, I lean back on my elbows and stare at the TV. She had already changed the channel. “What is Canberra?” I say to the screen.

“I hate watching Jeopardy with you.” She doesn't even bother to look at me. Her eyes are pointed at the screen, but she's focused elsewhere. Maybe in another country. Singapore probably. She hasn't talked about it yet.

The backdoor opens and I know it's Richard. He most likely won't want to see me here. I nod over to Courtenay and get up. Slipping out the front door before he makes it into the living room, I only catch a bit of the conversation before I'm already on the sidewalk.

“What took you so long Jackass? I have been tossing and turning on the couch for an hour and my head has been...”

          * * *

“He's gone.”

She's sitting on my bed while I finish drying myself off. She was already here when I got out of the shower. I still don't know how she gets in.

“What do you mean, he's gone? Who's gone?”

“Richard. He left. He found out about Josh. He doesn't believe the baby is his. And he doesn't want me to keep it.” She traces the lines on my pillowcase.

“Who's Josh? Wait... Mr. Married? So Richard's not coming back? Because you're keeping the baby?”

“No. It's more than that.” She stares as my towel drops. I have fantastic breasts, and though I know she's upset, I want her to look. She does, but she doesn't really see me.

I pull my pants on and try to find socks that somewhat match. I finish dressing and take a good look at her face. She's been crying. A lot. Not like her at all. And I think she's been drinking. That, however, is less of a surprise.

“Court, what's going on? What happened?” I sit next to her and try to take her hand. She pulls away.

“I'm further along than I thought. I went to the doctor.”

“Wow, you must be really serious about keeping it.”

“Him, Merissa, not it. I'm sure it's a boy.”

“Okay, him. So why are you so upset? Is the baby okay?”

“They did some kind of test on him. He's not... normal... They're pretty sure he has Down's Syndrome. There's only a 5% chance they're wrong.”

“So what are we waiting for? Let's go to the clinic and get it taken care of.”

“No. I told you. I'm keeping him.”

“Is that why Richard left? 'Cause you're keeping it? Or is it because it has Down's? Or because it might belong to Mr. Married? You gotta explain there Court, I don't understand what the fuck is going on.”

“Will you please stop calling my baby “it” for fuck's sakes?” She gets up off the bed and starts pacing around the room. She digs in her coat for a cigarette. I don't smoke in the house, but I figure it's best not to say anything.

“Okay, okay, I'm sorry. Wow. So, you're having a baby. With Down's Syndrome. Do you even know anything about Down's Syndrome?”

“Well I was thinking of going to the library to get a couple books or something. I also need to go buy a few things, diapers and stuff.”

“Mhmm, so what are you going to do about Richard? Are you going to tell Josh?”

“No. I don't think it's his. We used a condom a couple of times. I don't know about Rich. I want him to come home. But I know he won't. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing.”

“Well, you should not be drinking for one.”

“Yeah I kind of freaked out after my fight with Rich. I just took a couple of sips. I should probably stop doing that, right?”

“Yeah. The drugs may have to stop too. Think you can do that?”

“I can try. Can you help?”

“I can try.”

She sits back down on the bed and lays her head on my shoulder. This is the first time in all the years that I've known her that I actually think she's crazy.

“So you gonna be alright Court?”

“Yeah. I think being a Mom could kind of be my thing ya know?”

“Yeah, I think so too. We'll just have to see, right?”

Fuck beans.

La Pleine Lune en Decembre

Just found this in the notebook I keep by my bed; I apparently wrote this sometime during the night last night.

La Lune Brille Sur La Neige
I lie here, listening to the heartbreak in a Cajun voice. The emptiness of the bed -  a cold reminder of your absence, like the whiteness of the snow on a late April night.
The bottle of pills calls my name, Rosemary's sweet voice beckoning me to a place of dull ache with no pain. But I search for your words instead, the Siren's Song that reminds me why I'm still here.
Mais ma veine de Lumière Blanche va bientot s'éteindre.
Dawn will come and the streak of light from the streetlamp will stop pointing to the broken pieces of this puzzled doll and all that will remain will be Rosemary's whisper, a soft goodbye of spilled moon and dial tones.

Beware the Emo

I don't normally post like this (I've been trying to avoid all things negative lately), but right now, I'm at the end of my rope (almost literally), and I just need to vent. Feel free to skip this post entirely if you're not interested in the rantings and ramblings of a crazy lady.
I am fucking sick and tired. Both literally and figuratively. My Crohn's has been acting up (unless it actually is some weird stomach virus - that's been lasting OVER A WEEK), and the stress of everything has just been making it worse, not to mention that it's been pushing my mental illness and anxiety into overdrive, kicking it up to Holocaust Level 97 on my body.
So as stated, my stomach is killing me. I have been running to the bathroom to either puke my heart out, or poop my intestines out (pardon the graphic nature of that sentence), and I am just completely drained. I have no energy whatsoever. I'm exhausted and anxious and tired of crying.
I don't know what came first: the anxiety/stress, or the upset stomach. (I would make a "chicken or the egg" comment, but they actually solved that. Seriously, look it up - it's mega cool.) I've just been so anxious about everything... Because I've been so sick, the doctor put me off work for a week, which means I have no income right now, and I'm hoping my boss won't hold this against me. I've been too sick to even attempt to do schoolwork, and so now I'm getting behind. 
And you know what? I would love to talk to my family about all this, but I can't. I don't want to worry my parents, so I can't say anything to them. I haven't talked to my brother since November 2011, and to be honest, I don't want to. I won't go into that any further for now. And my sister? Well, to be honest, my sister and I never really got along. For the last 15 years, I feel as though she's hated me or resented me for some reason. It makes me sad because I've always wanted to be friends with my siblings, you know, talk to them about my problems and ask for advice. But no, that's never happened. And so I can't talk to them.
I'm too tired to finish this. I just want to be better. I just want to be well.

She's an Empty Canvas

I've been hanging out on Twitter a lot (some say too much), and I've noticed something about my fellow writers: 
We all talk about the voices in our head.
It made me realize that one - you almost need to be a little crazy in order to write well, and two - these voices are what feed our creativity; they're our alter egos, and the characters we create are born out of their personalities. 
I actually have a journal full of letters to my "alter egos." There's a woman's voice for each one of my moods. These characters have made their way into my stories and novels, and they've taken on a world of their own. So I've decided to share them with you. Allow me to introduce you to the voices in my head:


Margot
Margot is a sad child. She lives in a foreign time where the sun only comes out once a year. The other children decided to lock Margot in a closet, so she missed the sun. She understands sadness and heartbreak all too well. (This idea stems from an old story I read in grade 8. It always stuck with me, and when I'm sad or down, I write to Margot.)

Jezebel

Jezebel is the proverbial whore. "She was born to be the woman we could blame" (Iron and Wine lyrics). Because I've been raped and sexually abused, I sometimes have issues with sex, regardless of how much I actually enjoy it. There are times when I feel like a whore, as though I'm only good for sex. So Jezebel is that side of me - she understands the injustice and inequality of being a woman in today's oversexed society.

(this image is mine. No, I will not explain it.)

Lucy

Lucy is the Devil's Daughter. She's the "bad" side of me. The one who's ready to sell her soul for all her secret desires. The one who wants to break free, break the rules. She wants to lie, cheat, steal, deceive, escape reality with drugs, sex and booze. She'll show you a good time.

Rosemary

Rosemary is the voice of madness. I don't know where she got her beginnings - maybe in the darkest days of my depression and mental illness. She can be nonsensical or whimsical, dark and dreary or painfully optimistic when she's lost hope. Rosemary is usually my inebriated voice, the voice that only comes out when my inhibitions are down and I'm not afraid of the dark corners of my mind.

Ofelia

Ofelia is young and eloquent. She's the put-together kind of girl that I've always wanted to be. On my really good days, when I feel amazing and like I can take over the world, it's Ofelia's voice talking. She feeds my ambition, gives me grace, and reminds me of the things I love and want in life.

(This image is not mine, but I would like to point out the beautiful semblance this picture has with the "Dead Ofelia" pictures from Shakespeare's Hamlet. And no, that is not where my Ofelia comes from.)

Daenerys

Daenerys is from an Ancient World. She's the voice I hear when I wished I had lived forever and could have seen times gone by. She's the voice of the past, sometimes my past, when memories come flooding back, haunting my present and crippling my future. She can be very malicious at times, bringing back scenes and words that rip my heart to shreds, whereas at other times, she's compassionate and kind, reminding me of the wonderful times I sometimes forget.

Garland

Garland is everyone's inner child. She likes to dress up and play make believe. She so wants to believe in fairy tales and all the wonderful lies she was told when she was young, but she knows better. She still tries to be innocent though. Enthusiastic and charismatic, she wants everyone to fall in love with her.

And those are the beautiful women who haunt me, day and night, with whispers of stories and scenes that my heart beat, skip, and break. Now that you've met them, I might post some of their stories or letters every now and then. I'd like it if everyone knew them and understood them as well as I do. 

Do you recognize any of them? Are any of them pieces of you? Does your voice have a name, a face, a place to call home? 

Zendagi Migzara

It has been sooooo long since I've updated last that I'm not even sure to begin. Life has been so frigging crazy this past year, and I can't wait to share all of it with you, but for now, here's a "brief" synopsis of what's been going on (I say "brief" because we all know that nothing I say or do is EVER brief).

-I was really quite sick last year, both because of my Crohn's and my mental problems, so I had to withdraw from Uni for a semester. It really sucked, and to make matters worse, student loans cut me for a year, so if I wanted to study again in the Fall, I would have to pay it all myself. (Ummmm yeah there's no way right?) So I had to choose between School and my wonderful Fredericton apartment. I chose School. So I packed up my life and moved back to good ole Campbellton, my hometown, where I could live rent free while I struggled to pay for school. I'm gonna be honest: I was DEVASTATED over leaving Fredericton. Little did I know that it would turn out to be the best thing I ever did.

-When I left, things with Magoo and I kinda puttered out. We both realized that we weren't right for each other. We had a great time together, and still love and appreciate each other, but differently now. He still is and always will be one of my Best Friends, and I thank him for everything he's done for me. He'll never know how much he meant/means to me.

-So I moved to Campbellton and lived in my parent's basement for awhile. Mentally, I wasn't really in a good place. I felt like such a failure, like as if I had taken a step back ya know. And then, something amazing happened.

-I met the man of my dreams. Online nonetheless. Sylvain literally is everything I've ever looked for. And surprisingly, he says the same about me. I've never been in love like this. And he's incredible. I could go on gushing for another fourteen paragraphs or so, but I'll spare you the boring details and just say this: I have found the man I'm going to marry and spend the rest of my life with, and I could not be happier. 

-On that note, Happiness was hard to find this year. I had a bit of a relapse in January, February, and March, and had started to self-harm again. Sylvain helped me through it all (unbelievably supportive and caring this guy is), and I'm definitely in a better place now. That being said, they've discovered something new about my "crazy" - I don't have Bipolar Mood Disorder after all! Rather, I've been (re)diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder. It's easier to treat without medications (so we've stopped some of mine), but it takes longer to treat because it's mostly through therapy. My therapist is an angel. She has helped me so much - with my self-esteem, growing a backbone, learning to say no, and how to deal with the trauma and abuse I've been through. So it's been a long road, and it's going to be longer still, but I know now that things WILL get better. There's a proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, and I'm not afraid anymore. 

-Some other sad but happy news is this: my 91 (almost 92) year old grandmother has begun a very slow descent into dementia/Alzheimers. It's been going on for quite some time now, but last fall, it got bad enough that she couldn't stay in her home alone anymore. We were always terrified that she would fall down the (many) stairs or that she wasn't eating properly... It was just really stressful and heartbreaking. Especially since this is the Grams that I grew up living next to my whole life. Her and Grampy were fixtures in my childhood that time just can't erase or replace. And so in November, she was placed in a Nursing Home. It was hard, and quite the adjustment, but you know what? She's happy there. She is still really confused some days, but she knows she's better off there than here. I say "here" because we decided that instead of tearing the old house down (this is the house that my Father grew up in; it's 66 years old and beautiful), I would move in and take care of it until we can figure out what to do with it and whatnot. I love this house so much; I have so many wonderful memories here. (I'll be posting pics soon, of all the wonderful things  this house has to offer). So it was very sad news that Grammy had to leave, but somewhat happy news that I now have a space of my own. I feel a little less of a failure now that I'm no longer in my parent's basement.

                   There, now that all that has been said, here a few other reasons I haven't been blogging: 

--My OCD has hit brand new levels of weird and comical. I now organize my purse and work bag on a weekly basis, making sure that I have a little pouch full of necessities, a book and notebook, wallet and business cards, and of course, I make sure that everything matches. I'll be writing a post about all the OCD things I do that makes Sylvain laugh. Hopefully, you'll laugh too :)

--I now have several new addictions to keep me busy: organizing/renovating my house, eBay, Twitter, a couple new writing projects I'm working on, completing my book collection (this is actually a lifetime thing), Greek salad, my new side business (more about that later on), my cats (that's nothing new), and my new book club.

--I got a part-time job in the fall, and it's been going really well. I actually quite enjoy it, and I've been working a lot lately because we lost some staff. I work part-time at the Super 8 Hotel, doing mostly paperwork and filing and customer service. My boss gets me to do a lot of the writing and paperwork and translation because she knows I love it. (I get to paid to put things in alphabetical order; it's like a dream come true. I swear that in another life, I was a secretary extraordinaire). I also JUST got called to work at the local Library this summer as an on-call/casual staff. I'm SO excited :D (For those of you who don't know, I'm currently studying to become a Librarian, so this is like OMFG for me).

--As mentioned, I've been working on some new writing projects. Since my new diagnosis, I've been continuing my book The Chronicles of my Mental Decline. It's turning into a really fun book, and it's WAY better than I ever hoped it would be. I'll be posting excerpts every now and then. I also started a collection of short stories about life here in Campbellton, the people I've been meeting, tales from the hotel, and some family anecdotes. I'm actually really proud of this one, and I can't wait to share it with all of you. Still no title for this one yet though.

I think that's all the rambling I have for now, but this week, there will be plenty of new posts about what I've been using to keep myself happy, my list of writing tips, as well as pictures of the new house, and several more of my cats :) 

Thanks to everyone for listening to my morning madness; I love you all for it. xoxoxoxoxo times a million <3

My thanks to Bon Jovi

I wasn't yours. 
But we danced anyway. You held me close; it was so many years ago. I somehow managed to drag you out that night - or was it the other way around? You bought me a drink. Was it your coy way of getting me drunk? Or would you have simply done anything for me? So we danced. I could feel your heart beat against my body: abnormally fast. Your hands slid down to the small of my back. I think we both didn't want the night, the song, to end. Bon Jovi made time stop.
But I wasn't yours.
Not long afterwards, with sober eyes and a little more distance between us, we talked about that night. You admitted the truth; I said I couldn't. Maybe in another life, had you come first. But I was his. And as he walked in the room and sat down beside me, kissed my lips and pulled me near, you just looked away. I could almost hear you say: 

"What I'd give to run my fingers through your hair, 

to touch your lips, to hold you near. 

When he holds you close, when he pulls you near. 

when he says the words you've been needing to hear, 

I'll wish I was him 'cause those words are mine 

to say to you till the end of time"

Then came the day when I left. 
And suddenly, I was yours. 
We never danced again, but that's okay. You found other ways to tell me what was on your mind, on your heart. When you walk up behind me as I'm in the kitchen doing dishes, wrap your arms around me and kiss my neck, I can hear the unspoken words hanging in the air: 
"And I will love you, baby - Always. 
And I'll be there forever and a day - Always. 
I'll be there till the stars don't shine, 
till the heavens burst and 
the words don't rhyme, 
and I know when I die, you'll be on my mind, 
and I'll love you - Always."
I feel so lost when you're gone. The house feels empty, like it's not a home. The bed feels too big and much too cold. How can three weeks go by so slow when you're gone, and then too fast when you're here? You'd think that after all this time, I'd be used to the routine. I try to go through the motions. Wake up, breathe, write, look for you in the other room, hit a brick wall, turn around and walk aimlessly till it's time to sleep, dream of that summer day with you, me, Jim Morrison, and that insufferable heat, wake up, reach for you, your pillow is all I find, just breathe. But it's getting harder and harder to breathe.
It's been raining since you left me. 
Now I'm drowning in the flood. 
You see I've always been a fighter, 
but without you I give up.
I try to be strong, try to fight while I still can, but these rainy days keep comin' and I have no umbrella. There's always something, always something wrong. And you keep being the rock. But someday, erosion will get the best of you. Where will we be then? I'm no ocean, you're no mountain. What's forever in a case like us? You can't keep holding me up, but I still can't walk on my own. If only you had known me so long ago, before we were us, before I was his. I was better, would've been better for you. Now it's all so different.
Now I can't sing a love song
like the way it's meant to be. 
Well, I guess I'm not that good anymore, 
but baby, that's just me. 
It's just me. My whole life, it's been just me. But now there's you; now, there's us.
We don't dance anymore, but that's okay. It's a different waltz now. I take one step back, you push me forward. 
I've grown up. I don't believe in fairytales anymore. Ain't no Alice in Wonderland here; she's locked up in the asylum. Cinderella became a housewife; she was used to the part. Sleeping Beauty never woke up; the prince didn't ask for directions and got lost. So I'll have to write my own story. How will we end? Happily ever after? A Romeo and Juliet tragedy? Maybe we'll end how we started: a slowdance on a sticky floor, surrounded by strangers, swaying to music no one really likes (except me of course). All I know is, someday, someday soon, the music will play again. I'll stand on my own two feet, and all I'll need is your hand. Hear me when I say that I, that things, will change. I won't let you down. 
Take a look at my face: 
there's no price I won't pay 
to say these words to you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9BMwcO6_hyA
(don't watch the video - it's absolutely horrible, but do listen to the song. It's kinda one of my faves.)

8500 Days

I've never been a feminist.
My whole life, I've been an "equalist," or a queer theorist. I have always believed that neither men nor women are superior; we are all strong in different ways. Where a woman is weak, a man is strong, and vice versa. Maybe it was naive, but it worked for me. It allowed be to be non-judgmental and appreciative of both sexes.
That being said, I'm older now. Life isn't the same as it used to be, and neither is the world. I've been meaning to write this post for some time now, but have just been trying to think of the right words. And there are none.
It is absolutely terrifying (please note how much emphasis I put on this word) to be a woman today. Yes, we have come a ridiculously long way, but we still have so far to go before equality is something that is real. Something opened my eyes recently, and I want to share it with all of you.
I won't explain the whole story because that way, it'll force you to read the articles that I link, but I will make clear the point I'm trying to make:
AN ELEVEN YEAR OLD GIRL WAS GANG-RAPED (once again, notice the emphasis) BY EIGHTEEN DIFFERENT MEN OF VARYING AGES, AND THE COMMUNITY/SOCIETY BLAMED HER.
Yes, you read that right. Rape culture has become such a huge part of our society nowadays that it's stripped women (pardon the pun) of every dignity we have. As someone who was raped and kept silent for years, mostly because of fear, I know what kind of repercussions rape culture can have on a person. That little girl's life has been completely fucked. It took me years to get over my sexual abuse, I'm still dealing with it today; I can't imagine what she's going to have to go through to get her life back to normal. I feel for her, I really do. I won't become all preachy or anything, but I just wanted to point some things out, things that we tend to overlook.
Let me tell you a story or two... about men and women... An ex-boyfriend of mine (no names shall ever be named) and I were talking about possibly pursuing a long-distance relationship, as he was possibly moving away for school. We were wondering whether or not we could make it work, which is reasonable, right? Then out of the blue, he tells me, and I quote: "Maybe if you lost some weight, I'd be less prone to cheating on you." Yeah, you read that right too. I was like WHAT, so he continues: "It's just that you kind of have jowls, chubby thighs, and a fat butt. If you lost weight in those areas, we'd have sex more often, and you wouldn't have to worry about me and other girls while I'm gone." He then proceeded to show me pictures of what I should look like... THEY WERE PICTURES OF PORN STARS. I would have had to lose 30 pounds, grown 8 inches, and lost about 3 cup sizes. And all this happened while I was a healthy 118 pounds, with D size breasts, a tiny waist, and a smoking toned body. Yeah, true story.
Second story: Another boyfriend, different time, was crazy in love with me for a freakishly long time. Told me I was the girl of his dreams, everything he ever wanted. He made me feel so beautiful, so amazing. Then, one day, (there's always a storm in every fairytale isn't there?) something is obviously bothering him, so I ask what's wrong. He says: "No, I don't want to talk about it. I feel like a horrible person." But obviously, I ask him to please tell me, otherwise I'll be really self-conscious and upset and think it's me, which is reasonable, right? So he says: "Well... since you've been on your new meds, you kind of have a little bit of hair on your upper lip, and it weirds me out. It makes me want to kiss you less." (First, let me point out that everyone has hair on their upper lip, and mine, though existent, were actually quite pale and barely visible. Secondly, I'd like to also point out that he barely ever kissed me at all. He was one of those guys who just never made out, which sucked because I really like kissing; I find it very intimate.) So these incidents led me to ask myself: WHY IS MY BODY NEVER FUCKING GOOD ENOUGH FOR GUYS? But then I realized something: there is absolutely nothing wrong with my body. The problem is the men. Now, I'm not saying that all men are evil or anything like that. I've also dated women, and trust me, we're not perfect peaches either.
For a long time, I never had any problem with my weight or self-esteem issues. But that's because I had the kind of body that society deemed acceptable (seriously not trying to flatter myself here; I have naturally beautiful breasts, I'm short and petite, and because I worked out and danced a lot, I was in great shape). Then, I got sick with Crohn's. And they put me on some horrible drugs: steroids. Now, I don't know if everyone knows how shitty these pills are... They make you gain about 50 pounds of water weight, they make your hair grow longer and darker, including the hair on your arms and the rest of your body, and they make you really weak and feeble, unable to do most things you used to do, and completely kill your lungs and endurance (granted, they did help with the inflammation in my intestines a little bit, but still). So of course, I gained a lot of weight, and my whole body and face just completely changed. There were some people in high school who would actually point and laugh "behind my back" and I could always hear the whispers and I knew all the rumours... And my self-esteem just went right shit. I never thought I'd lose the weight and get my body back. But I eventually did. University came, and I was looking really good again. Then, I went crazy and "became bipolar." And they put me on some horrible drugs: mood-stabilizers. Though they have helped my mind like mad (pardon another horrible pun), they've made me gain about 60 pounds. Once again, my body has changed completely. My face looks the same at least, but my once nicely toned abs are gone and have been replaced with a tire (albeit little) around my waist. Yes, I have lost 15 of those pounds; yes, I'll probably lose more. But my self-esteem still isn't what it used to be. Kind of like this world.
Now, although all of this seemed like rambling, I do have a point. Tonight, I spent a couple of hours shaving my legs, plucking my eyebrows, fixing my hair and my nails, finding a sexy-ish outfit, and spritzing on perfume. Why? Because I wanted to feel sexy. I wanted to come out into the living room, have my boyfriend take one look at me, go "damn," and then take me into the bedroom and make love to me like he meant it. Instead, he told me I "looked cute." And then went back to reading stuff on his computer lol. To be honest, it really upset me at first. But now, after thinking about feminism, and about how much we actually do for men, I don't care. Tonight, I did all those things because I wanted to feel sexy. And ya know what? I do. My legs feel amazing, I smell great, and despite my chubby tummy sticking out, I look fantastic. And it won't be wasted; I'll just make love to my fabulous self on my own. It's his loss, right? But why do we do that? Why do we try so hard for anyone but ourselves?
Now, I know that I can't be compared to the eleven year old girl. The point of this post (as incoherent as it is; I apologize, but it's quite late at night/early in the morning, and I'm quite tired lol) is that women are not equal to men. Not yet. There's still a ridiculous amount of rape, abuse, FGM, injustice, and a million other things that make it so that men are still the superior beings of this Earth. And it's wrong. These things are wrong. Once again, I'd like to reiterate that I do not think that all mean are evil or misogynistic or anything like that. I'm just saying that women have not been allowed to be equal yet. It took me 23 years, exactly 8500 days today, but I have finally decided to live my life for me, to be beautiful for me, and to be independent. I don't need a man, but I do choose to have one. I shouldn't have to compromise any part of myself to be a girlfriend/wife/mother. I see the plight of women now. I hate the inequality that still exists. And I want to help make a change. I'm getting out of my box, and doing something. We've been degraded too long to not stand up and be heard.
I've never been a feminist.
Until now.

About rape culture and the incident: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/03/09/us/09assault.html?_r=1&hpl

NYTimes article about little girl: http://www.alternet.org/rss/1/513829/11-year-old_girl_horrifically_gang-raped%3B_new_york_times_article_blames_the_victim?akid=6629.41174.6ebY8o&rd=1&t=12

Horrible facts about rape: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/4078677.stm

Language in rape culture: http://therumpus.net/2011/03/the-careless-language-of-sexual-violence/