My Screaming Diary

For Taylor

2009-11-27T15:04:00.002-05:00

A few nights ago, I went to see someone fulfill a dream that had been in the works for 23 years. The show was called "Mirabel Sings the Blue - At Last", and it was just as it described. Mirabel had a dream to sing. 23 years later, she fulfilled that dream, finally letting go of the fear which had held her back for so long. The venue was intimate, and the crowd was small, all friends and family who love her. She sang her ass off, and she was really, really good.

I met Mirabel in the bathroom before the show. We had never met, but I introduced myself to her, and told her how much I admire her for conquering her fear and doing what she had always wanted. She told me the story about how she got there, and encouraged me to put my own fears aside and follow my heart.

And it made me think about Taylor.

On May 14, 2009, we went for a walk, and ended up at a downtown bar that was featuring several local musicians. The first one up was Taylor Mitchell. An 18-year-old guitar player/song writer/folk singer who knocked our socks off. She wasn't doing anything complicated. Simple songs with simple melodies. She seemed to understand what Neil Diamond said: All you need to write a song is three chords and the truth.

I sat there watching her and thought, in a rare moment of fearlessness and clarity, I can do that. If she can do it, I can do it. I will. I asked the bartender for a piece of paper and wrote on it, right there while she was singing:

At The Silver Dollar

May 14, 2009: Taylor Mitchell

May 14, 2010: Anne Shirley

I spoke to Taylor and her mom after the show. I bought Taylor's CD (which had been released less than 2 months before), and left the bar feeling excited about what I was committing to do. I went home and hung that piece of paper on the refrigerator, and then on the lamp on my desk, where I would see it, and always remember this young girl, how she inspired me, and a moment where I was totally fearless. A moment where I really believed that I could do it.

On October 27, 2009, Taylor was killed by two coyotes while hiking on the Cabot Trail in Nova Scotia. She was on an East Cost tour to support her album, and had taken that morning to hike through what is without a doubt one of the most beautiful places in the world. The attack was one of those crazy random events that just makes you shake your head, because it is so far out in left field it is almost unimaginable.

This amazingly talented young artist is gone.

Mirabel waited 23 years fulfill her hearts desire.

You never know. Don't wait.

I think this little exchange pretty much says it all.

2009-11-26T12:14:00.002-05:00

Me: Today would have been my fourth wedding anniversary.

Him: I'm really glad it's not.

Me: Me too.

My Side of the Story: The First

2009-11-25T13:38:00.002-05:00

I don't remember meeting her, but there she is, in my old class pictures starting in Kindergarten. It's like she was just always there. I don't remember much about our friendship until the third grade. There was a Grade 3 class and a Grade 4 class, and mid-way through September, the school decided that some of the Grade 3 students would be moved to the Grade 4 class to make a 3/4 split. I was home sick the Friday that they announced which students would be moving, but I remember R coming home and telling me that I would be in his class starting on Monday. She was in that split class too, and that's really where I remember it beginning.

We would go on through grade school, with a larger group of friends, but there was something special between us, even when we had other friends who we spent drifted more towards at any given time. We often walked home together, splitting up at the end of the path that ran through the park - she went north to the home with the porch that her father and uncle had built, and I went south to the home that I grew up in - the one my family lived in for almost 30 years.

In the 7th grade there was a shift. All of a sudden, we weren't in the same class anymore. She had a different homeroom - and a different math, english and science class. We went on an week-long camping trip that fall, and I ended up bunking with someone in my own homeroom. She said she was fine with it, but on that trip, she broke down and accused me of leaving her - leaving her on the trip with another roommate and leaving her at school by going to another homeroom (which was not of my own doing, but she was clearly having a moment). We got through that, and from then on, it was her and me. Me and her. If I was without her, people would ask, "where is she?" and vice-versa. It wasn't friendship, it was sisterhood. There were other friends who would come and go from our group, but it was always the two of us first. We didn't fight. We had each others backs. We shared lunches and homework and hair clips. We walked to school and home together every day. I decorated her family Christmas tree with her. She baked me shortbread cookies drowned in icing sugar at Easter. It was us and them.

In the 11th grade, we had a blowout and didn't talk for several weeks, maybe even a month. I don't remember exactly what happened - I just remember that she started purposely excluding me from things, and when I finally called her on it in the hallway of our high school, in front of my locker, she blew up at me. I couldn't tell you what she said or what I said, but that rift was the talk of the school for a while. In the end, she apologized, we made up, and went right back to where we were before. Her and me. Me and her. We sang in the choir together. I visited her family restaurant. She came to all my basketball/volleyball/soccer games. Us for each other first, and then, everyone else.

In our last year of high school, I started dating someone who was in University at a school about an hour away. He came back to Toronto on alternate weekends, and I'd spend that time with him. Otherwise, it was business as usual. Or so I thought. Till one day in January when she phoned me up, screamed at me for -- I'm not sure again -- something about picking him over her, and hung up on me. She wouldn't take my phone calls later that night. Apparently, she had talked to a couple of other friends about how she had been feeling about this, but not to me. So we didn't talk again. Our friends tried to get us together, but we weren't having it. I don't remember how we made up from this one, but I'm sure it was her who came to me. We cam back to where we were, but it wasn't the same. I felt betrayed. We never fully healed from that one. We were going in separate directions that fall - me to Hamilton, her to Windsor, and we ended up just drifting apart when that last year of high school was over.

During my first winter away at University, I had a dream about her. I don't remember it now, but I remember that it was that dream which was the impetus for me to e-mail her, ask her how she was doing, and try to reconnect. She responded, and from then we kept up an inconsistent communication until the end of University.

Graduating from University was a tough time for me. We met once for dinner right after graduation. I remember she had a beer, which I thought was weird never having seen her drink before (we were a pretty conservative bunch in high school). Shortly thereafter, I made a quick decision to leave the country for the summer, and I did. I spent two months in London, and when I came back, I sent out an e-mail inviting friends, her included, to a birthday party I was having in a few days. I received a scathing response from her. Something to the effect that I hadn't bothered to let her know I was leaving the country, so why did I think she would want to come celebrate my birthday...

After that, we only had very sporadic communication on and off over the years. Fast forward several years - and lifetimes - later, and the world of social networking ended up putting us back in touch. She eventually suggests we should get together for a cup of coffee, which we do. I'm more nervous than I've ever been on a first date. We meet, she gives me a big hug, we sit down, and she starts to talk. And she talks. And talks. And talks. And I realize that she's a different person than the friend I once had. But then, so am I. 15 years ago, I talked. She listened. This time, she talks, and I listen. It's not deep, or emotional. We're not sharing our personal feelings about our lives and about our relationship and what happened to it. For so long I missed that friend, and I thought maybe this evening over a cup of coffee may take us back to the place where we once were, but I realized quickly that it wouldn't. Because we're not those people anymore. We said goodbye with hugs and promises to do it again soon. We both knew we never would.

A House Is Not A Home

2009-11-19T15:53:00.001-05:00

I was sitting in the living room of a friend's apartment last Sunday, and it got me thinking. She lives in this place by herself. She moved to this place when her marriage ended. I don't know her most personal feelings about all of it, but I do know that she loves living where she lives. And all I felt was this overwhelming sadness and sense of loss.

Three years ago, one of my lifetime dreams came true when my name was officially signed onto the deed of a house. But it didn't take long to realize that a house is not a home, and that house never felt like home. Not for one minute.

Then I moved to a much more modest apartment, and for the first time in a long time, I was home. My home. All mine, and no one else's. I loved loved loved every minute I spent there by myself, and sometimes in the company of loved ones. I never regretted or lamented that I was there. I never took it for granted, and I repeated over and over to anyone who would listen how everyday when I went home, I just wanted to put my arms around that little apartment and hug it because I loved and appreciated it so much. A place where I could think, and sleep, and come back to who I really am. Home.

And then for reasons beyond my control, I had to leave. Leaving that apartment was harder and sadder than leaving my marriage, by leaps and bounds. I didn't leave because I wanted to, I left because I had to. I left because he made it so I couldn't stay. It would have been different if I had left of my own volition, but he didn't really leave me with any choice.

So I bucked up and moved on, and have now landed in a place that feels like home again. But something about being in her living room last Sunday brought it all back, and it was almost more than I could bear. It made me angry at him all over again for doing what he did to me. It made me sad that I had to leave a place I loved, kicking and screaming and crying on the inside the whole time. It made me long for the chance to do it again and have the choice to leave, when I want, to where I want, on my own terms.

Then I had a good cry in the shower and closed that chapter for good.

What's in a Name?

2009-11-16T21:21:00.003-05:00

Last week, a friend queried a few of us ladies to get our thoughts on changing our names after marriage. Here's what I wrote to her:

I never really swung hard one way or the other before I was married about whether or not I would change my name. When I did get married, it was important to him that I change my name, so I did. And I'm not ashamed to admit I did like being Mr. and Mrs Same Name. One family. One name. I liked that.

As our marriage went on and I became more and more unhappy, I knew it was going to end. About a month before it did, I changed my name back to Shirley. Funny because at work, I sent an e-mail out indicating that my name was Shirley now and got a shitload of e-mails back either saying "Congratulations on your wedding!" or "Sorry about your divorce." And all I had to say was, "It's neither. Just going back to what I know."

I remember I took a day off to run around and get my name changed back, and he called me while I was doing all this running around and asked me what it meant. I told him it just meant that I wanted to be who I really am: Anne Shirley. But in my heart I knew that wasn't the reason. I didn't want his name because I didn't want him.

Going back to my maiden name was one of the best times of that time of my life. It gave me a lot of strength. My name is Anne SHIRLEY. I, Anne SHIRLEY, don't want to be here anymore. I, Anne SHIRLEY, am getting the fuck outta here. I, Anne SHIRLEY, am going to go save my own life now. (Yes, you can have whatever you want. You can have everything. You can ruin my life as much as you can over the next two years. Please please please just let me go.)

So now I'm Anne Shirley once more. I like it. It suits me. I love being a Shirley. There is an identity there that ties me to people who will always be there for me, no matter what. People who understand me. People who are crazy like me. There are traits that "Shirley's" have, and I have them. I know I do. That name makes me feel like I belong somewhere. I would love it if my married name had made me feel like I belonged, but all it did was make me feel more alienated from myself. (And there was already enough of that going on in those years, believe me.) I also didn't feel like I belonged in that family, so taking that name only made me feel like I was kind of losing my place in one family, but I didn't feel like I was taking up a spot in a new one.

I can't say for sure that I wouldn't change my name again (Anne Blythe? Really?), but I know it would be hard to do. Much harder than getting married again (which is still not something I can fully wrap my head around yet). I still like the Mr. and Mrs. Same Name. I still like the idea of one family, one name. If there were children involved especially, it would be nice for all of us to have one family name. But it would be hard. Really hard. Maybe too hard. Maybe not worth doing if it's going to be that hard, given that it doesn't matter to Gilbert. But I've changed my mind on such things before.

Oh yeah. I'm back, Bitches.

It's All Up Here

2009-08-01T01:04:00.002-04:00

Lately, I've been doing a lot of thinking. Just thinking. Not writing, not talking, just thinking. I've been meaning to get it all down on paper, but until now, overcoming the inertia to pick up a pen has seemed an physically insurmountable task. It's just easier to think. But I do recognize that there is value to getting it down on paper - working through my feelings, organizing my thoughts coherently, and like she said, "if you're a writer, put that shit on paper".

So after this almost two month hiatus, I'm back at it. Trying, yet again.

Nice Shot. Wrong Direction.

2009-05-19T12:41:00.002-04:00

Last fall, I started playing disc golf and immediately fell in love with the sport. Disc golf is like regular golf, except instead of hitting a ball with a club into a hole, you throw a frisbee (disc) into a basket.

Yesterday, I went to play disc golf with a couple of people who are much better than me. One of them said to me, many times yesterday, "Nice shot. Wrong direction."

After I heard it for maybe the third or fourth time, it dawned on me that this would be a good title for my autobiography, were I to write it today.

Nice Shot. Wrong Direction. The Autobiography of Anne Shirley.

It pretty much sums up how I feel about how I've lived my life to date. I have tried. My intentions have been good. But somehow, it all seems to go askew. School, work, relationships with family, friends and partners. I can find many examples of this very sentiment throughout my whole life.

Nice shot. Wrong Direction. Truer words were never spoken.

The Wife

2009-05-12T17:55:00.000-04:00

WARNING: BOOK SPOILERS IN THIS POST

A few days ago, I finished a really awful book titled 'The Wife'. The book was about a woman whose husband is a huge literary success. He has published a large body of work, received accolades and awards, and ends up winning one huge literary award in particular, immediately after which he dies. Of course, it is apparent to the reader very early on (though it is not explicitly revealed to the reader until later in the book) that his wife was the one writing all his books. The book is written in first person, from the wife's point of view, and though the plot is thin, the characters are flat and the story is ultimately not well developed (at least in the opinion of this lay critic), there were a few keys lines in the book which caught my attention.

Everyone knows how women soldier on, how women dream up blue prints, recipes, ideas for a better world, and then sometimes lose them on the way to the crib in the middle of the night, on the way to the Stop & Shop, or the bath. They lose them on the way to greasing the path on which their husband and children will ride serenely through life.

Everyone needs a wife; even wives need wives. Wives tend, they hover. Their ears are twin sensitive instruments, satellites picking up the slightest scrape of disatisfaction. Wives bring broth, we bring paper clips, we bring ourselves and our pliant, warm bodies. We know just what to say to the men who for some reason have a great deal of trouble taking consistent care of themselves, or anyone else.

"Listen," we say. "Everything will be okay."

And then, as if our lives depend on it, we make sure it is.

I read the above and wondered how many women would read it and, like me, think "I could have written that myself".

I was a wife. I may be one again one day. Some days I feel like one now, though I am acutely aware of the distinction in my own brain which is brought by signing my name on a dotted line. But the author very clearly captured what I have heard from women every day, what I have seen women around me do - what I did myself to a certain extent.

When we are girls, we have goals and dreams and sometimes a certain whimsy about our lives - what they mean and where they may go. We imagine who we will become. But even those of us who imagine becoming wives (and mothers - an angle which I speak of with a certainty born not of experience as a mother but of experience as someone who has been mothered, and who is highly aware of the sacrifice which often comes with the title) - do we ever imagine what we will give up to do so? How our lives - big decisions and small - will be shaped so sharply by the dreams, desires and even comforts of another person? Do we all step off our own paths to pave the way for someone else?

Maybe a successful relationship is when each does that for the other. Or perhaps it is one foot on your path, one foot paving theirs. I never imagined that I would so easily make the sacrifices I did when I held the title of Wife. And they weren't all bad. But I made them quickly and easily and without much thought to what I may be giving up to ensure the comfort, success and desires fulfilled of another.

Ultimately, the problem for me was paving someone else's way without neither him or I paying attention to my own. Let's try to avoid that again.

Bleed, throw it out, move on.

2009-04-21T19:20:00.001-04:00

Years ago, I took a road trip with a couple of friends. Two of us were going through bad breakups at the time, and the lone voice of reason in the car gave us some sound words which I still carry with me today:

Losing a relationship is like a plate breaking on the floor. It sucks, and there's glass all around, and you get cut and you bleed but you pick up the pieces and move on. But a few weeks or even several months later, you'll find a piece you missed. You may find it by moving a table or chair and there it is. You pick it up, deal with it, throw it out and move on. Or maybe you find it because you accidentally step on it. You bleed a bit (though not as much and not as long as you did with the big pieces in the beginning), but the bleeding subsides, you deal with it, throw it out and move on.

Orphaned

2009-04-20T23:10:00.003-04:00

I read a book recently which included an idea that triggered something inside me. Though the exact line escapes me right now, it was something like we are orphaned over and over again.

I thought about this for a long time.

Merriam-Webster defines orphan as a child deprived by death of one or both parents, a young animal that has lost its mother, and closer to home for me, one deprived of some protection or advantage.

I am lucky to still have both my parents alive and kicking, but I imagine the loss of a parent to be significantly greater than the loss of another in one's life, because this loss represents not just a person, but a resource, comfort and security. The loss of this person, or people, changes everything, forever. I am a 31-year-old woman who has only very recently accepted that her parents are mortal beings with their own lives, feelings, problems and dreams. To lose one or both of them now would be unimaginable.

But the loss of resource, comfort and security - a loss that would change a life, is not necessarily that of a parent. In my life, I have lost two best friends and a husband. Each of those losses affected me greatly, and after each of them, I knew things had been changed forever. To use the term "orphaned" to describe how I felt when these people were no longer in my life is not a stretch. They each touched me greatly, and though their hand prints remain on my heart, the cool breeze over the spot which their hands kept warm has been felt for a long time.

They're Just Dreams

2009-03-19T22:28:00.002-04:00

Just over a year ago, I had a dream that T&R had put Nadira into an institution because she had been diagnosed with depression, at the ripe old age of 4. The dream took place in the institution - I was standing in a room with T, looking through a one-way mirror into a room where Nadira sat on a chair in a circle with several other children, who were presumably there for the treatment of similar ailments. There was a woman there too, on her own chair in the circle. She was talking to the kids, and Nadira was sitting there calmly listening, but I lost it. I began to cry, and begged T to bring her home. I told her that I knew it was hard, but that we'd all help her, and please please don't keep Nadira in there, please bring her home.

I woke up from that dream crying, and called T immediately to make sure Nadira was okay, which of course, she was.

Almost exactly a year later, I have another dream. This time, I'm on the second floor of a school, looking through a window into the gymnasium on the first floor. Nadira is there, as she is now at 5 years old, in her gym class with several other girls. Nadira is content playing on her own, but I can her the other girls talking behind her back, saying "she's so mean" and "she's so selfish, she never shares" and "I hate her". Then one of the girls walks up behind Nadira, grabs her by the hair, throws her on the floor and proceeds to beat on her. And nobody does anything. I begin crying and screaming for somebody to help, but for the few more moments that I lived this dream, nobody helped her, and I didn't know how to stop it.

Again, I woke up crying hysterically. I couldn't even talk for several minutes to explain why I was crying - probably not a nice situation for the company I kept that night to wake up to himself.

I relayed this dream to T, and we talked about the similarities to the dream I had the year before. Nadira being in a bad situation, being unable to help, always watching from the outside. Nadira of course is fine, and T asked the inevitable question: "Are you sure these dreams are about Nadira? Maybe in your dream she represents someone else...maybe you?"

Nadira is a crazy, kooky, amazing kid. She's loud and outgoing, and in many of her loud and boisterous ways, she's like neither of her parents. They are both so easy going and relaxed, and she's always on 11. She does remind me a lot of me when I was little. Maybe it is me in the dreams after all.

Black Cloud

2009-03-12T15:18:00.005-04:00

There is a monster on the television show LOST. To call it a monster sounds a bit simple and childish, but that's what they call it. They don't know what it is or where it came from. It comes out of nowhere - though often it is probably triggered by something. Maybe if they knew the trigger they could stop it.

It is a huge, black, dense cloud of smoke. It comes from above or under the ground or out of the woods. It appears out of nowhere, and then wraps itself around you, enveloping you, suffocating you. Or it can grab your legs right out from underneath you and pull you down into a hole that's impossible to get out of. While you're in that hole, or enveloped, suffocating in the black cloud, you can hear the monster mimicking your own voice, telling everyone you're okay. You don't know how to stop it, or at least how to use your own voice to say you're not okay, and you need help.

For me, depression is that black cloud. Usually triggered by something - any myriad of things. I know I spend my life standing on the brink, waiting for it again. It grabs me out of nowhere, enveloping me and suffocating me. Or it grabs my legs and pulls me down, further and further underground. I hear my own voice saying I'm okay. So often that's not true, but I don't know how to stop it. I don't know how to get out of its grip, and get away.

So I run. I put my running shoes on, and sometimes a hat, and sometimes gloves, and sometimes when it's so cold that my eyelashes freeze together and sometimes when it's so hot that I've been on the verge of heatstroke. I run. I run because I often feel that it's the only thing that keeps that black cloud at bay, but sometimes it's like I just can't run fast enough or far enough. It's always nipping at my heels, waiting for me to stumble so it can grab me and feed on me once more.

I've gotten better at recognizing the signs when it's coming. I can sense it before it grabs me full force. Sometimes I can stop it, but when I can't, I know what I need to do. I run.

The Simple Things

2009-02-18T23:45:00.005-05:00

I spent tonight lying on a friends couch watching t.v.

She fed me chocolate, didn't ask me why I was there, and we barely spoke to each other for four hours.

It was like giving in to the blanket, but with another heartbeat in the room. And it was exactly what I needed.

Thank you, DT. ♥

Double Digits

2008-12-17T18:37:00.000-05:00

Something hit me a while back - I am now officially in the double digits.

C'mon ladies - you know what this means. I don't know that I had ever really thought about this in my life, and what it would mean, if anything at all. There was a time when I thought I would end at 7, but we all know how that turned out.

Then there was a nice lull of a year or so, and them BAM - 8, 9 and 10 within 5 weeks of each other.

Ho. Bag.

Okay, I think they are all explainable, and I don't regret it, but the fact remains that I am now in the double digits.

I wondered how I would stack rank against my peers, so I sent out the query to a few close friends to see the numbers that came back, and the results were interesting. Everything from one to almost twenty.

Almost all of them said that they never thought they'd get higher than 10. More than one mentioned that when the number hit the double digits, they felt kind of slutty, but eventually got over it, realized that that's life, and have been enjoying themselves ever since.

I didn't query any guys on this, but I am fairly certain that if I did, the results would be quite different. For one thing, I don't trust guys to be honest with the numbers, and I think they would be heavily inflated. I also think that their attitude towards the overall number would be different. Guys wouldn't feel bad for hitting double digits, they are likely to feel bad for not.

It is an obvious, much-talked about, still-lingering stereotype, and it sucks. I hate that there is a voice somewhere in the world that tells me that I should feel bad, or that I could be perceived as promiscuous, while guys will pat each other on the back with each notch in their belts.

So ladies, I say this - we take back the power of the numbers into our own hands. Whatever your number is, own it, appreciate each experience, learn and grow. Don't look back with regret. We frickin' rock. Don't forget it.

Revelations Part II

2008-12-09T16:24:00.002-05:00

They keep coming. And what is most interesting is not that they are coming, but I find that now that I am making a concerted effort to think before I open my trap, those precious moments make me realize how difficult it can be to articulate what I really want to say. With that, these revelations tend to come more slowly, and when they are full formed, are more well defined. But for my faithful three, here are some new ones:

1) I don't want to have kids just to have kids. I never have. I have never said, "I want to be a mom and have kids and that's that." I didn't even think I wanted to have kids until I met someone I wanted to have kids with, and that was in my 20's. It was only after that that I realized that for me it wasn't about the kids first, it was about finding the right person to have a baby with. It's a big difference.

2) My self worth is not tied to what I do and how I do it. Meaning, it's not tied to how well I do in school, or how well I do my job, or what job I have. This seems so simple now, but I cried yesterday when I finally realized this. And I realized that no one will ever make me feel again like what I do dictates who I am and what I am worth. Now that that's over, I realize how much it sucked.

Running (Not Away)

2008-12-05T11:37:00.000-05:00

When I was in University, I started running in the summers to stay in shape. I never ran very far, or very fast, but I ran. And I loved it. I still do.

I stopped running during the mess I made of my life earlier this decade, but earlier this year, I started running again. I had a goal to complete a half marathon a month before it was all over, and I did it. I did it alone, with no one to cheer me on, except my own two feet and a necklace around my neck that I had wanted for years, instead of a ring around my finger I never really wanted in the first place.

A little while back, I read a short piece written by a woman who started running after being diagnosed with breast cancer. Though our paths were different, the sentiment is the same. This is a small part of what she wrote:

And then I ran. Exactly as planned.

I was running for my life, in a sense, though I knew that competition was really unfolding inside my body, far beyond my control. I was running in affirmation, in defiance. I was running to prove that I could, to show that I was not defined by the clusters of renegade cells that were growing within me.

To deal with something in my life that has not, in any conceivable way, gone exactly as planned.

I'm glad to know I'm not the only one.

Pearl

2008-12-01T19:54:00.003-05:00

I spent this past weekend celebrating the 90th birthday of Lou Levine. Lou is loved and adored by all who meet him, and after meeting him for the first time this weekend, I can understand why. He's a kind, generous, lovely man, who even at the age of 90, continues to spend his winters downhill skiing. A true inspiration.

But the person who really made think this weekend was Pearl. Pearl is a dear, old friend of Lou and his wife Tessie. I met Pearl this weekend, and found out that she has been friends with the Levines for over 70 years. Pearl made me think about friendship, and about one friend in particulary, my DT, Paprika.

Oh, Paprika. She makes me want to scream like only a sister can. But I love her. I yell at her like I yell at my mom. Because I love her. I want her to love herself. Because she deserves it. And I know that, because I love her.

When I met Pearl this weekend, and watched her celebrating with Lou and his family, it made me think of Paprika. And that, 58 years from now, we will have been friends for 70 years. I look forward to celebrating that day with her.

Just Another Day

2008-11-26T07:59:00.002-05:00

Ani DiFranco is playing a concert in town tonight. When I first heard about it a couple of months ago, I thought I would like to go. I listened to her music quite a bit a year and many moons ago. All those angry, bitter, you-did-me-wrong, how-could-you-do-that-to-me, heart-wrenching notes suited my mood at the time, and I thought that would be a good way to mark this day.

And then I changed my mind.

Do I really want to devote a perfectly good day every year being mired down in anger and regret? Not really.

So I've decided that today will not be the day that would have been our third wedding anniversary. Instead, today is just another day. Get up, have breakfast, go to work, go home, and maybe even spend the night in the arms of a new love.

I'm not thinking about three years ago. I don't want to. I'm not angry or bitter or upset or avoiding anything. I just don't want to.

So, as of now, and going forward, November 26 is just another day.

A Bitter Song

2008-11-24T19:43:00.005-05:00

Three years ago today was the first major snowfall of the season.

Exhale...

A Bitter Song

All I need is a bitter song
To make me better
Much better

All I need to write is a bitter song
To make me better
Much better

If only to hold me
But I don't like it at all
Won't feed it
Won't grow it
It's folded in my stomach

It's not fair
I found love
It made me say that
Get back
You'll never see daylight
If I'm not strong it just might

All I need is a bitter song
To make me better
Much better

All I need to write is a bitter song
To make me better

I feel better

I feel better

- Butterfly Boucher

Lists...

2008-11-16T10:29:00.002-05:00

I'm not afraid of a list.
I'm not a afraid of a long list.
I'm not afraid of really long list.

Maybe I'm a little afraid.

Switch to: OFF

2008-11-14T14:37:00.001-05:00

You can't shut off your feelings. You can't change your feelings. You're going to feel what you feel, so learn how to deal with it.

That's basically what she said to me, in a nutshell. For an hour this morning. I begged and pleaded with her to tell me how to fix this, but apparently, there is no pill or diet or technique to be employed in the feeling-changing department.

That blows. Someone really needs to come up with a pill for that one.

Broken

2008-11-14T08:54:00.002-05:00

Let sorrowful longing dwell in yoru heart.
Never give up, never lose hope.
God says, "The broken ones are my beloved."
Crush your heart. Be broken.

- Shaikh Abu Saeed Abil Kheir, aka Nobody, Son of Nobody

I'M GOING SWIMMING

2008-11-12T20:25:00.001-05:00

I'm going swimming.

I'm going swimming.

I don't know what I'm afraid of. I'm not an idiot. I know how to get to the YMCA. I know how to get to the pool. I know how to swim.

Stop. Being. Scared.

STOP IT.

I'M GOING SWIMMING NOW.

The Sign on my Lawn

2008-11-12T20:22:00.001-05:00

Originally written on June 7, 2008:

I have a friend who told me the other day that I have a big FUCK OFF sign on my lawn

I don't actually have a lawn, but I get the metaphor. She said I can be really defensive with people, and that it's usually to either prevent myself from getting hurt or having a reason to fall back on when the inevitable hurt finally arrives.

I never really thought of myself as a defensive person before. Angry? Sure. Bitter? Who's not? But not defensive. But as she laid it all out there plain as day, it was hard to deny what she was saying.

This all came up because there's this guy...blah blah. Whatever. The point is, I don't know what to do with him. I do like him. But I don't want to tell him. For two reasons - one, I don't want to hear him say he doesn't like me back. Two, I don't want to hear him say he does like me back.

Fun, huh?

It would be really nice to have a boyfriend. But, it has also been nice not having a boyfriend. And I'm really not up for heartbreak right now, so I'm keeping all of this to myself. But apparently, it's more than that. It's the big FUCK OFF sign on my lawn rearing it's ugly head.

I told her all the reasons I don't think it would work between me and said boy.

And she said, "This is you, making excuses for why it won't work, so that when it doesn't work, you can say you knew all along, and you think that if you keep these reasons in your back pocket and pull them out when the 'inevitable' happens, it won't hurt, because this will be your ammunition against it." Or something like that.

Anyway, the point is, she's right. I had never thought about it like that before, but as soon as she said it, I saw that she was right. And not only did I see it in this situation, but I saw how I have done that over and over again in my life.

It's not to say that I'm going to tell said boy how I feel, but she has given me a lot to think about.

Angry, bitter and defensive.

Jeez. I suck large.

My thoughts now, November 12, 2008:

She was right and wrong. I can definitely put up the FUCK YOU sign when I need to be defensive. But that's not what was going on. Because, the day after I wrote that, I went on a date. And another date. And another. With the same guy. Not the guy in that post. Another guy. A guy I'm still dating today.

So where did the FUCK YOU sign go with this guy I'm dating now? Why didn't I have it up with him but with guy #1? I don't know why it was so hard to see then. I didn't want him. Looking back at it, and it wasn't that long ago, it's pretty clear. I didn't want him. I could have had him if I wanted it. I didn't. I made every excuse in the book.

"It just won't work."

"We're too different."

"We're too much the same."

"He's too much the same."

I felt like I should want to be with him. It made a lot of sense, on paper. But I just didn't feel it. I didn't then, and I just couldn't fake it. I did that for so long, I just couldn't do it anymore.

So there we have it. It only took me 5 months to figure that one out.

Good on you, Anne. Keep going.

Let's try this again

2008-11-12T19:53:00.003-05:00

Looks like I wasn't totally unblocked there. Maybe this will be it. I wanted to follow my Pink Collar friend's lead, and post 30 times in 30 days, but I'm already 12 days behind. Another month. Another challenge.

As I was looking over my old posts, I noticed I have seven unfinished drafts. Then I thought, "well, that time has passed, it's too late for those posts". Then I had another thought. This is my blog. This is my writing. There are only, like, three people who read this blog anyway. So I can do whatever I want with it. Nobody cares. So I'm going to go back and see if I can finish what I started. I'll back date them for my three faithful, so you can go back and see what was a-go when I started them.

I'm so sure you will.