Getting Something Off My Chest

A few moments ago I posted this as a note on facebook for all my friends there to see. I'm doing the same here in hopes of being able to feel better about myself once this secret is out.

My secret shame is that I totally have a beard.

I'll let that soak in.

I have hidden this fact from 99% of you by shaving daily or hiding away until it's grown long enough to wax it off myself. If you look close enough we all have peach fuzz but at a young age I was mocked about mine and the following years had me shaving my peach fuzz until it finally started growing in darker and thicker, only making things worse. Now, because some children in elementary school were assholes, if given enough time I can grow a very visible chin strap beard. I took their bullying and teasing to heart so hard that for over a decade I have had to almost daily shave my face to keep my shame in check. I have refused to let lovers, friends, or boyfriends touch my face because I fear they will feel the stubble of my beard growing back.

I'm tired of hiding and feeling ashamed of myself. Of feeling ugly and man-ish because of something so meaningless. This is not one of those "pass this on" annoying things. This is me, Shalene Sidra Walters, announcing a secret I have tried to hold in for over a decade to all of you because I don't want to hide anymore.

Of the few people who knew before some have asked me why I don't get electrolysis. The twisted irony of my situation is that I also suffer from a skin condition known as vitiligo. This is something I can't hide and those of you who haven't noticed yet simply haven't looked close enough or maybe just don't pay as close attention to me as others. They're my "white spots". The patches of skin where I have absolutely no pigment. I lucked out at puberty and it didn't fly off the handle and cover me completely making me look albino, but it is all over my body. The only place I do not have any white spots is on my neck or face, the first places someone notices. Why am I bringing this up? Well no one I have talked to about vitiligo and electrolysis can guarantee me that the process wouldn't scar my skin enough to stimulate my vitiligo to multiply like crazy all over my face.

So, for over a decade, I have had to decide between a daily ritual of shaving my face or risking to spend the rest of my life with people staring at me and asking "what's wrong with your skin?"

Now you know something about me. Something honest and something I've kept hidden. I trust most of you will treat me no differently.

Bad Habits

I have quiet a few of them. Most of them are small quirks or things I do while fidgeting. Some of them are fairly large things, like the desire to light up and smoke when extremely stressed out. My worst habit is the habit to push my emotions down and keep them bottled up until they finally spill out in very unhealthy ways.

For those of you that don't know, my Nana passed away Sunday May 22nd. She had been in and out of the hospital a lot over the past couple of years, having pneumonia so many times that it no longer came as a shock when I'd get a phone call from dad telling me she was sick again. My Nana was like most Englishwomen her age; feisty, strong and stable. She made pneumonia her bitch every time she had it. So when we got the call saying her kidneys had shut down (flash back to my late Uncle Ian's downward spiral into bad health) I figured she'd still have many more years to come. Why not? This is the woman who was the only survivor of a bomb that killed off most of her family in the war. She quickly degraded into a state of constant pain and delirium that it was obvious I was wrong. She wasn't going to last long at all.

That was when the rush of emotions started. I didn't really feel them much, as I'm so used to pushing "bad" emotions down that it's almost second nature. It wasn't until I got the phone call from my cousin Stacey that Nana had passed that I sat there, in my friends living room surrounded by people I was not comfortable showing "weak female emotions" to, that I felt a surge of emotion so harsh that I couldn't think. I could only manage to calmly say "my Nana just died". That was it. Calmly announced to a couple of guys I doubt even really cared. "Oh," was all I remember hearing in response.

The next couple hours, even days, went by with self control. I let out a surge of emotion when saying goodbye to my Nana, but other than that I managed to keep myself calm and in control. It wasn't until I went to visit a friend that I lost control. I had gone to comfort her over her recent break up and we ended up drinking. A lot. She was on medication that kept her from drinking a lot, but "in the spirit of friendship" I took 3 for every 1 she took. We were using the large "double shot" shot glasses. In the end, I ended up vomiting for over 2 hours, until nothing but blood was coming up.

This made me realize that I really don't deal with my emotions in a healthy way at all.

On a lighter note

The Quiet World by Jeffrey McDaniel

In an effort to get people to look into each other's eyes more, and also to appease the mutes, the government has decided to allot each person exactly one hundred and sixty-seven words, per day. When the phone rings, I put it to my ear without saying hello. In the restaurant I point at chicken noodle soup. I am adjusting well to the new way. Late at night, I call my long distance lover, proudly say I only used fifty-nine today. I saved the rest for you. When she doesn't respond, I know she's used up all her words, so I slowly whisper I love you thirty-two and a third times. After that, we just sit on the line and listen to each other breathe.

 This is my favourite poem. Enjoy.

Dark Thoughts

I didn't want to write this blog because I thought it wouldn't be the right place to do it. But I've been sitting here all day fighting back tears and dark thoughts realizing that if I don't talk about it somewhere, fully and without holding anything back, I'm not going to feel any better at all.


This is a warning, right now, that this post is not going to be happy at all. It's going to come from a very dark place in me that some of you probably don't know is even there. Some of you might be shocked, some of you might be used to it. But if you don't want to read about my depressing thoughts and emotions, then stop reading right now.














I woke up this morning at a reasonable hour, normally I sleep in purely out of exhaustion or laziness. Today I didn't want to face reality. I hadn't had a particularly interesting dream or anything, I just did not want to be conscious and have to face life. I say that because sometimes I have amazing dreams and I do not want them to end, but thats a story for another blog. Whether it was lucky that Merric didn't appear to want to wake up either, or a bad sign, he slept until I finally decided I needed to drag my ass out of bed and come downstairs to check my email. Why was this so important? Because I'm trying to sell a bunch of shit I have no use for to pay my bills. 


Yeah, I really hate admitting I'm a broke ass young mother, but it's the truth. I do what I can to get by and to make sure my son is fed. I try to down play it, but honestly some days I only eat once so I can make our groceries last longer. Merric eats 3 meals a day because, honestly, he's more important to me than myself. I've dealt with hunger pains before from refusing to eat in junior high because I was too lazy to wake up early enough to have breakfast before leaving for school and often not making myself a lunch out of the same laziness. I can handle it, it's not good for me, but I can deal. 


I feel so overwhelmed with just living life sometimes. I don't understand how people do it. I rarely have the drive to actually see friends, I often let communication slip until one of us messages the other claiming it's been forever and even then I sometimes let things slip again. I just don't seem to be capable of having the kinds of relationships other people have. I have a very small handful of people that I honestly think I could phone at 1 am for a ride home from the hospital, a position I have been in before. And even fewer people I feel I could call to ask to drive clear across the city to get my crutches and Merric's car seat and bring them back clear across the city because I cannot put any weight on my foot and I'm stranded at a friends house. Even then I feel like a complete burden to people and wonder why anyone would put up with me. 


In junior high I used to cut my leg. I was too chicken shit to attempt suicide a second time after what happened the first go round. It just seemed like some sort of a sign that it wouldn't be the best out, and yet I still have to fight back thoughts of it. I would cut my leg because I didn't cut for attention, so I didn't want them somewhere people were likely to see. I did it once as a mixture of punishment and an apology, and it backfired completely and really hurt and pissed off the person I was trying to make amends with. I didn't know why I started doing it, I mean I was having a shit time of it in life, but I still can't really figure it out. I tell people it's because I was trying to externalize my inner pain, but I'm really good at bullshitting and sounding smart. But I still think about doing it. Today I sat staring at my wrists, and when I do that it terrifies me. I knew I wasn't ever at risk of bleeding out when I'd cut my legs, I never cut anywhere near an artery and never deep enough to need stitches or anything. A lot of the time I would just sit there and watch as the blood would run down my calf and ankle. 


The first time I pierced myself I was mostly trying to cause myself pain. I tell people that it took me an hour to finally push the needle all the way through my belly button flesh because I was scared of the pain, but honestly I could have stopped if I was scared of it hurting. I kept it just in the middle of completion for an hour to feel the pain and cry. This probably doesn't surprise some people. 


I often think my son is better off without me. I know it's bullshit, but I still feel it. I feel like a terrible mother. When I look at him I cannot comprehend how he has turned out to be such a happy little guy. I know my keeping him has been a source of pride for a lot of people, but I do wonder if it was the right choice. If I am a good mother, or if he would have been better off with someone else. These thoughts are really not helped when certain people call me "a child with a child". They make me feel like I have no business being a parent. It's really not helpful when the person I should be able to turn to the most is constantly putting herself in the position of bad guy. I cannot count the number of times she's threatened to call child services on me because my house is not up to her standards of organized. Like she would put me through the pain of being questioned and scrutinized as a parent, or worse, judged without investigation, purely because I cannot keep a tidy house. 


I've just been having a rough day today, and I didn't want to talk to anyone about it because I didn't want to be a burden, I didn't want to bum anyone out, and I really didn't want to seem like I think my problems are more important than what is happening in the rest of the world right now. You know? Like there are thousands of missing, possibly dead people in Japan right now because of a natural disaster, and here I am feeling sorry for myself because I can't find the will to push through the day without thinking about harming myself. I think I'm going to end this blog here. I know I wasn't as open about a lot of things, but I tried. 

Ideals

It's not surprising to hear someone talk about their ideal something or other. Recently engaged women often talk about their "ideal wedding". Some people talk about their "ideal job". Recent events sparked me thinking about what my ideal future would be. 


It seems like a silly thing to think about considering I only have so much pull in what happens in my future, but it was useful in helping pass the time quickly. I realized that my "ideal future" is fairly simple. I don't want for much, honestly. My ideal life went something like this, in my head;

• a husband to love me
• a cozy house to call ours
• a sibling for Merric
• a dog

Seriously, that was all I thought of when I thought about an ideal future.

Anyways, it's not much of a blog post but here it is. 

What's your ideal future like? 

21 year old old woman.

I feel like an old person tonight. Why? Well simple reason, the arthritis in my ankle is acting up. It's only really bad when the weather starts to change giving me that whole "I can feel the weather changing in my bones" super power. I hate the feeling, a lot. Some times it's so bad it feels like it's broken again and other times it's even worse and I cry until my pills kick in. 


Right now it's the lesser, only feeling as though it's broken again. I had a hot bath hoping that the dull ache I was feeling earlier in the night was just from walking around Walmart for a couple hours. However, when I got out of the tub and laid down for a while I knew it was more than just normal wear and tear. 


So I figured, since I'm up right now anyways, I would write a new blog as I haven't in a while. So here it is, because after I take my pills for the pain I have to stay awake and busy for a while to distract myself from the feeling they give me. It's a hard feeling to describe but it's weird enough that it will start to make me panic if I don't go unchecked. Luckily, the last couple times I had people to talk to to keep my mind from wondering if I accidentally took too much (even though I only pop 2 at maximum) or if there's something wrong with them and I'm going to die. 


Lets awkwardly jump back to me in grade 7 now. Why? Well, that's when I broken the ankle that acts up. I broke it at my first ever wrestling meet, during my first ever "real" match. Yeah, by the way, I was totally a female wrestler in junior high. Aren't I just the awesomest? I didn't even realize I had broken it until near the end of the match, when we had to both stand back up and start again from upright position. When I stood and put weight on the foot I fell back down to the mat. I was winning 7 to 3 and there was about 10 seconds left to go. My coach (and most favourite teacher in the world) came over and took a look, told me he thought I'd broken it and then asked me what I wanted to do. I asked him how much longer there was to go in the match, he told me and I decided to play it out and spend the seconds avoiding her and not letting her get anymore points. 


My mother loves to tell people the story, but she never tells them how long I had left in the match from the time I realized my ankle was broken. She also leaves out that because of the adrenaline, I didn't feel any pain. From my ankle down was completely numb, it actually felt like my foot had fallen asleep. I won the match, of course, I was already winning when my ankle broke. And because there were only 4 of us in my weight class my one win in my only match got me 3rd. I was a bit of an asshole (okay, a real big bitch) back in junior high, so it made me very happy that the girl who lost to me had to go back home knowing that not only did she break my ankle but she lost to me. With a broken ankle, I kicked her ass. 


Anyways, when we finally got to the hospital (as we weren't sure it was broken and figured it was just a sprain or a twist and I wanted to stay and see if maybe I could still compete and to also cheer on my friends) the doctor said, after looking at my x ray, that it was the type of fracture that you would see in someone who jumped from the roof of about 5 stories  high and landed on their feet. He couldn't believe I'd gotten it just from wrestling. So, I got a cast and had to use crutches for a while. Which was hard since it was winter... and the bus stop closest to my school was still a literal block away from the actual school. My opposite leg got nice and beefy while my ankle heeled. 


So that's the story. I'm going to go watch Criminal Minds until I feel comfortable going to bed without panicking. 

Sleeping Habits

I recently read a blog post by a friend which was basically about how he sleeps and the state of his bed. It's kind of inspired me to discuss this topic further as a lot of the time people tell me my sleeping habits are "not normal." 

So let's begin with simply stating "this is how I sleep". I need white noise to fall asleep, or I stay up too long thinking and thinking some more, so I sleep with my fan on. This serves two purposes as it creates white noise and also creates a cold atmosphere. I love the cold and cannot sleep when it's too hot, so my fan is pretty key in me getting a good nights rest. I also sleep with one pillow between my knees and my teddy bear all entrapped in my grasp. In the summer I will sleep with the window open and only a sheet on, as I am incapable of falling asleep if I don't feel some sort of material weight on my body. In the winter I sleep with a 5 or 6 year old quilt on. When it's really cold, I toss on a second quilt as the first has pretty much lost most of the stuffing that makes quilts warm. If you're wondering why, when it's cold, I just don't simply turn off the fan then you're not paying attention. 


I have never been someone who makes their bed. Ever. The only exception is when it's not MY bed. When staying at my Grandmothers house, the bed I sleep in get's made in the morning because it's not MY bed. When I lived with my father and stepmother the fact that I never made my bed was one of many issues between my step mother and I. She was the type of woman who was very concerned about appearances. "We're having guests over for dinner, go make your bed!" It never made sense to me. My room has always been a fairly private place to me as, until recently, it's been the only room in an entire house that was ever mine. It used to drive me nuts that when I wouldn't make my bed she would come in and do it for me. It even got to the point that if I didn't "straighten up" my desk, she would come in and do that too. Seriously. I never really saw her do it, but the evidence was enough. When I gave in for a little while, in hopes that she would stay out of my room, she would still come into it. It drove me nuts. I knew she had been in my room because she would always close my closet door, because apparently closet doors are not allowed to be left open. I am a very paranoid person, I have never been able to be in my room with the closet door closed. I always open it. Currently, my bedroom has two closets and neither of them have doors. It has seriously solved my problem.


So that's another part to me sleeping well, the closet needs to be open and the bedroom door closed. There are only 2 places I seem to be able to fall asleep without these rules being followed, one is my friend Clever's house and the other is my friend Ricki's house. I don't know why, but they are just two places I feel really safe. There is a 3rd place that I feel really safe, but the last time I slept there the closet had no doors anyways, so my rules were accidentally followed. 


As scandalous as it's probably going to seem, I'm going to talk about sleeping with someone else now. I don't sleep well with someone else in my bed, and I sleep even less well when in someone else's bed. This doesn't even have to be a scandalous or sexual thing, even spending the night sleeping next to a platonic friend is rough on my sleeping habits. My son seems to be the only person I can sleep beside without it affecting me. I flop about a lot in my sleep, except when Merric is laying in my bed next to me. I wake up frequently when someone else is in my bed because I feel like I'm not at ease, I can't be comfortable and relaxed. Even when sleeping I worry that I'll roll over and smack them with my arm or something. 


Camping is even worse. Sharing a tent with more than one person, I absolutely hate it. I love camping though. I used to have to share a tent with my brother, and I think that was the only time I've ever been able to share a tent with someone. Boys are gross, and my brother is no exception. They fart and burp and scratch themselves in their sleep, and since it was my brother I didn't feel obligated to hold in my burps, farts, or scratching needs. Because, let's face it, girls are gross too. 


So anyways, I think that covers most of everything. I intentionally left out in what state of clothing I sleep in, because I think that's more a private thing. Whether I sleep nude, in flannel pajama;s, or in a space suit, it's not really anyone's business. 

Bad Dreams/Nightmares

So last night I had a really terrifying, vivid and gory dream. Or maybe it was bad enough to be classified as a nightmare. I'm not really sure what the differences are, but I woke up from it shaking and started to cry. It was really rough. It was one of those dreams that seems so real that when you wake up and realize it was just a dream you're so relieved you just want to throw up. It's left me feeling very disturbed that my subconscious mind could come up with something like that. 


I don't want to go into many details, but it was so bad that I watched a very beloved friend be tortured with an ax. It was haunting. I still can't get the mental image out of my head. His screams were so real, his anguish and pain.. the blood. It was horrible. 


I have friends that believe dreams are trying to tell you something, that they're prophetic. I can't even begin to comprehend what that dream may have been trying to say. It was just so terrible. I've spent the entirety of my day trying to forget it, but it's still fresh in my mind. I kind of don't want to go to sleep tonight because of it. 


Please tell me I'm not the only who has disturbingly vivid and horrific dreams? I don't like feeling like I'm a sick freak for having had this dream. 

I've Been Searching

Finally I have found my soul mate! I am desperately and completely and hopelessly in love! Eggnog triple thick milk shake from McDonalds, you complete me! <3


Anyone who knows me well enough, should know of my complete and total addiction to Eggnog. If given the choice, I would live off cartons of the stuff all season. Sadly, that's terribly unhealthy. At least thats what people tell me. I prefer to believe they are just trying to get more Eggnog for themselves. 


After a quick doctors visit, my son, mother and I went to McDonalds. Merric had earned it. He was really brave during the doctors visit. While in line I discovered a sign, the most wondrous sign. A sign that made me wish I had my camera with me to capture the moment better. It declared to me that I could purchase (you must imagine my voice saying that as "purr" and "chase", it makes it sound better) a Triple Thick Milkshake flavoured of Eggnog. 


I am sipping at it right now and I am in a thick creamy heaven. Stop being a pervert. It's delicious. 

Pet Peeves (Part 1)

I hate being made to wait. 


But not the average "you have to wait to see the doctor", or "you have to wait ___ many days for [a special occasion]". I hate being told "maybe I'll come see you later". Then all night there is no word as to whether or not they are on their way. "I'll let you know before I head out if I'm going to come over or not" and then nothing all night. Nothing. No word or anything. 


I hate it. 


I wait until it's absolutely ridiculously late and then go to bed more than pissed off. And when I wake up? All I want to do is yell at them. Especially when they know how much I hate being made to wait. Then I feel bad for being so angry because "maybe they got hurt or in an accident". But then they pop online and all that rage comes back and all I want to do is rip them a new one. 


But it never works. The trend continues and they constantly treat me like not even second string, but third string. The bench warmer. "If I've got nothing better to do, maybe I'll come see you." 


You know what? Don't even bother.

Text Based Fun

So it's time to take a break from being serious or advertising my brother. I'd like to take some time to talk about the joys of my life.


Recently my brother started posting a blog. Like I mentioned then, he is the funniest person I know. Makes me laugh like nobody else to ever exist ever. Ever. He is the only person in the known universe that can make me laugh by pointing out a flaw or insecurity of mine.The only. I have had boyfriends in the past notice this about my relationship with my brother and attempt to replicate it. This, of course, ends in a premature termination of our relationship because I don't take that crap from no one. Except my brother. But he does it with nothing but love and humour, and I know he does it with love but when someone else does it it stings. 


Anyways, we've been being ridiculous in his comments section in the style of a text based adventure game. It made me realize that more than anything I go through cycles of loving these types of games. I find them to be the best thing ever and then eventually forget about them and lose interest. It's possibly because I don't have much experience with good genuine text based adventure games. My experience is literally limited to the 3 you can find in the games section of the website HomestarRunner.com. They are as follows;

Dungeon Man which is quite literally over before you even get into it. 
Peasant Quest which is a combination text and graphic game.

Dungeon Man 3 which completely discards the reality that you should have a 2nd to a game before a 3rd. 


I'm very interested in finding other actual text based games, but really wouldn't know where to start. Can anyone help me with this?

I should have a big purple hat

And on that hat there should be a big lime green feather. This hat should also have a big matching fur jacket. And I should start carrying a cane! Why? Because I'm a mothering flipping pimp, people. Let the pimping begin!

Not to offend anyone, but my brother is the most hilarious person I know. He finally has decided that he's ready to start posting a blog. This link is your gateway to the awesome that is that blog.

You should be all about clicking that link. Right now! If you haven't yet, I hate your face. Has that persuaded you to click the link? No? Well it should have!

Dreams

I've been having a lot of dreams involving my old dog, Shmeg. They are so realistic that I don't want to wake up, but when I do I get depressed because I remember.


Just a note, that this blog post is probably going to get fairly emotional fairly quickly.


Shmeg was a dog we got when I was about 7. At the time we already had a cat, that was brought into the house when I was about 1. 

She was not happy with us and showed us by peeing on my moms down duvet.

Shmeg quickly became my best friend. When my parents marriage started to fall apart, he would come find me as soon as the yelling started. He would snuggle with me until it ended, and sometimes even a little after. Our house was a strict "no dogs on the furniture" house, but when my parents weren't around I would bring Shmeg up on the couch, or on my bed, with me to cuddle. 

We spent a lot of time snuggled up on my bed, especially when I was sick.

Anyone who hasn't ever had a close relationship with an animal can't understand how much I miss him. There will never be a dog to replace Shmeg, and I don't ever want there to be. He had this look to him where it made him look like he was smiling all the time. It made me happy.

And even when he wasn't "smiling", he was looking deep and contemplative. Like there was some deep meaningful thoughts on his mind. I try to focus more on the time we spent cuddled up on my bed, or the couch, usually watching t.v or movies when I wasn't feeling well. He went for runs with me and was the first animal to ever respond so obediently to me. Later we would get another dog, and you would really have to be forceful with your voice to get his attention, but Shmeg listened. Shmeg always listened to me. The way Shmeg died seemed fitting, what with all the time we spent curled up together when I wasn't feeling well. But I'm getting ahead of myself.


Our cat started to go crazy, literally developing dementia. She stopped cleaning herself, wouldn't let us near her to brush her, and was literally the kind of cat that would rather rip open your throat than let you bath her, or shave her. When she was at the tipe old age of about 15 we had to put her down. She had finally hit the point where she didn't know what anything was, not even her food. This was the first time we'd ever raised two animals together and were very unaware that when you put one down, you need to bring the other along. So that it can sniff the body and know that it's dead. Otherwise you end up with an animal with abandonment issues. 


Until we put P.C (our cat) down, Shmeg had loved other cat's. He always wanted to play with them, like he'd play with P.C. After we put P.C down is when we discovered that the animal left alive will develop emotional issues. For months it was a fight to get Shmeg to eat, or do anything. He would lay about lazily, depressed. He also started snapping at other cats. He would see one and go absolutely ape-shit. He wanted nothing more than to rip them apart, luckily we were the type of pet owners that only let the dog's off leash in safe area's, like off leash parks. 


My mom bought Shmeg a puppy, thinking it would help him with his depression. Well, that was her excuse. The truth is, since I was born she's wanted another Wolf-dog. She finally had a reason to buy one. 


Shmeg was about 9 years old when he started to develop health issues. The vet we were at at the time told us it was typical hip dysplasia that almost all German Shepards develop with old age. They were not the best vet office, and after other issues with them we sought out a new vet. The new vet informed us that we had been treating the wrong issue. He could tell just by watching Shmeg walk that he didn't have hip dysplasia, his spine was fusing together. I still cannot explain the anger and rage I feel towards our old vet. They wasted time we could have been spending treating the real problem. Instead, by the time we got him to the new vet and were told the real problem, it was too late. He had already lost a lot of muscle mass in his hind legs, and there was no fixing him.


He lived a couple months longer on pain killers, until he literally couldn't get up anymore. Once he started soiling his bed, we knew it was time. He was no longer living a good or happy life, he was suffering. My mother had taken P.C to be put down and was more than adamant that she couldn't do it again. Choking back tears, I told her I wanted to be the one with Shmeg anyways. He was my best friend. Like I said, at this point he couldn't stand up by himself. I had to pick him up and carry him to the car, then from the car to the vet's office. He was about 90 lbs and the heaviest thing I'd ever carried that long, but I didn't want to ever put him down, literally.


I will always remember sitting on the cold floor of the vet's office as they tried to sedate him 3 times before it took. Once it took, he laid there lazily, his head on my lap, looking up at me with that smile of his. He finally let the sedative take him, and he laid there peacefully on my lap, shallowly breathing. The vet came once more and it was finished. My best friend was gone. I sat there with him on my lap, on the cold floor. I didn't want to leave. The nurse came in, I could barely breathe I was crying so hard. But I had to let him go. They needed the room, and my son was starting to make a major fuss in the waiting room with my mother. 

I didn't want to leave him, much like my Uncle Ian only a few years before. I just didn't want to leave. Leaving made it real. The dream's I've been having lately have all been happy. We're snuggling and running and spending time with each other like we did when he was still alive. But I always wake up, look for him in a daze, and then realize he's gone and remember the feeling of his lifeless body in my arms.

Snoooooooooow!

Of course it snows again the very day that my mother and I are starting on the heroic adventure of gutting my house and pretty much cleaning it from top to bottom. Even the cobwebs in the basement will be lemon-y fresh. All I really want to do today is frolick around with my son in the falling snow. 


Oh well, let's just hope that it continues to snow so by the weekend I can make you all a super awesome snowmen. Snowmen are great! The only thing better than a snowman is the many hilarious ways Calvin and Hobbes make snow-creatures. My favourite is definitely the snow sharks. 

For those of you that can't read the text;
Hobbes is asking "Snow sharks?" And Calvin is replying "That guy's a goner"
I couldn't make the image any larger without completely throwing off the layout.

Hoarding

It's a serious disorder and I just want to say right now, that I am by no means belittling anything about it with this post. I just needed to talk a bit about it and how my mother does not understand what it actually means. 

Hoarding is a general term for the accumulation of food or other items. The term is used to describe both animal and human behavior. It is a normal stage of behavior in children
Hoarding as a human behavior falls in to two main categories. One type of hoarding is triggered as a response to perceived or predicted shortages of specific goods. Compulsive hoarding, on the other hand, is a mental disorder marked by an obsessive need to acquire and keep things, even if the items are worthless, hazardous, or unsanitary. The compulsive collection and ownership of pets is known as animal hoarding. Compulsive hoarding is thought to fall along the spectrum of obsessive-compulsive disorders. [source]

Compulsive hoarding (or pathological hoarding or disposophobia)^[1] is the excessive acquisition of possessions(and failure to use or discard them), even if the items are worthless, hazardous, or unsanitary. Compulsive hoarding impairs mobility and interferes with basic activities, including cooking, cleaning, showering, and sleeping. A person who engages in compulsive hoarding is commonly said to be a "pack rat", in reference to that animal's characteristic hoarding.

It is not clear whether compulsive hoarding is an isolated disorder, or rather a symptom of another condition, such asobsessive-compulsive disorder.^{[2] [source]}

To really make you understand what I'm about to talk about, I should mention some stuff first. Less than a year ago my mother moved out of the house I was born and raised in, a 3 level townhouse, with 2 bathrooms, 3 bedrooms, a backyard, shed and an entire basement. She moved from this, to a 2 bedroom trailer on an acreage with her boyfriend. When she left, she left a lot of her crap here too. It was part of our agreement. I would live here, rent it from her, but she would keep the stuff she couldn't take out there, because of lack of space, here. I was fine with it and for the most part left everything where it originally was. I guess this was out of respect and because I had just grown up with them being where they were. I had a roommate move in and she absolutely hated where most of my mother's stuff was, so she moved it all. I think that's beside the point though. 

Anyways, I don't have much stuff. I really don't. I've never lived anywhere but a single bedroom. So, most of the stuff in my house is my mothers. Oh, except for a bit in the corner of the basement, that's from a woman my mother practically begged to let stay here with me until she got her own place and the woman left one weekend in like July or August, saying that they were moving to Calgary (a city about 3 hours away) and that they'd be back the next weekend to pick up their crap. I haven't heard a single word from them since then. I have tried texting and calling the only number I have for this woman multiple times. So her stuff takes up about 1/4 of my basement. 

So today on the phone my mother accuses me of being a "hoarder". It's not the first time she's said it and I always find it so amusing and aggravating. If I were to put a percentage on how much of the stuff in my house is actually her's it would be about 45%. Then 10% is the crap from the vanishing woman and her daughter, and the rest is mine and my son's. Also, aside from the fact that only about 45% of the stuff in my house is actually mine, it's all stuff I do actually need. Toys for my son, my furniture, appliances, cleaning products, stuff I actually use on a regular basis. It is literally mind boggling to try to figure out how, in any informed human beings mind, I am to be considered a "hoarder" or "pack rat". 

If anything, I am merely disorganized or possibly even just lazy. Okay, very likely both disorganized and lazy. I live in a state of semi-chaos. At least the area's I frequent the most do. My computer desk, and my bedroom. I can only kind of see where she is coming from. My kitchen/dining room (because my house is not big enough for these area's to be separate) does have a stack of newspapers and cardboard boxes to be recycled. But honestly, the only reason they haven't been put out is because they need to be contained in the blue bag, and I don't have the money to afford the blue bag's. I can barely afford regular garbage bags. And even then, it's not that bad. They're not dirty or anything. They are mostly moving boxes and newspapers. They're even neatly stacked in an organized pile. 

I just really don't understand my mother. 

Thought Provoking

"Pretty much anything I say is probably trite, but I put forth a different perspective: Our 'mind and soul' is more like the flesh that contains it, not fragile and static like a china doll or a robot (tho Astro Boy's rocket boots were pretty awesome). Chips and cracks are more like scrapes and bruises. Breaks are still breaks, though (they just suck that much, they keep the name).

Like flesh, the wounds *really* hurt and it doesn't just "go away" as you will it. It takes time and sometimes it needs some therapy to help it heal. Sometimes there's scars (or a limp).

I think we are always - all of us and everyday - a work in progress."  - My dear friend Maskwa

This was a comment he left on my last post. The post about how I'm broken and feeling a bit at a loss. It really stopped me and made me think. I've been convinced I've been looking at myself the right way. Seeing myself as broken, damaged goods, and Maskwa gave me an alternate view. I just wanted to thank him for that. It's been helping me review myself better. 

I've decided to believe that we're all incomplete. Every one of us. Every day brings the chance for progress and also the chance for destruction. I'm not alone in feeling that my inadequacies make me less worthy of humanity, we are all inadequate. Every single one of us is not fit to be deemed "complete". We all have things we struggle with, parts of our selves that we hate. A lot of us project that onto others, seeing our flaws in them and hating them for it. For reminding us, even subconsciously, of our failings. I'll admit it, I do that daily. You probably don't want to admit it, but you do it too. We all do, because we're all the same. We're all suffering, struggling, fighting for or against something. 

We all have issues, whether they are obvious or not. But that's what makes us great, isn't it? The fact that despite our failings, our inabilities, our inadequacies we manage to soldier forward. We continue on in a hope to find these issues and fix them. Better ourselves. Perfect ourselves. Be complete. But will we ever be "complete"? 

Just something to think about. Thank you again, Maskwa, you've given me a lot of self reflecting and thinking to do. I'm determined to figure out why I am so damn focused on seeing myself as broken and not at all fixable. 

I'm not emo, I've just been thinking.

I would just like to start this out with an apology. I don't want to be a bummer, or a Debby-downer, but sometimes things need to get a bit serious. This is one of those times. Take this as a warning, if you don't want to read the inner most workings of my emotional mind, then just skip this post all together. 

I am broken. I’ve always been broken.

It’s an odd sensation, realizing you’re broken when you thought you were whole. Or at least, whole enough. But there is no fixing me. Pieces of me died. Looking back it feels like they died at big huge moments and though a couple of them did, most of them slowly withered. Years of neglect and complacency from important people in my life made me hard. Made me think I was hard. Made me try to be hard, cold, in control. But I’m not. I’m alone, lonely. There is no fixing me, because I’ve been broken so long they no longer make my spare parts. There’s no going back and changing who I have become, there is only tweaking who I am and who I will be.

I break down when I think of the words my mother said not too long ago. They made me realize that I’m obviously broken. That I’m not hiding my cracks, flaws, and missing pieces as well as I thought I was. She said “I know a part of you died the day your Uncle passed away. A part of you died that day and I can see it.” I had thought I was dealing well enough. Hiding my pain well enough. I didn't want it to be on display because my pain doesn't matter. Not when my mother lost her oldest brother. Not when my grandmother lost her first born child. At the time I didn't realize how badly my grandmother was hurting. Now, I can only imagine her pain. I look at my son, almost 3 years old already, and I try to imagine what I would do. How would my life play out, if I lost him. I have to stop because I start to have a panic attack as though tomorrow he is going to be gone and my life will be even more empty.

I know it probably sounds sad to you, that my son makes my life at least semi-complete. He is the reason I get out of bed in the morning, the reason I even bother. Without him, I'd probably be gone. Not necessarily dead, just gone. He saved my life and as much as I hated his father for the pain and the struggle he created in my life, I love him a little for giving me the one thing I needed to save my life. I already know what someone who is reading this is thinking, and no it's not healthy to have that much importance on my son. Yes I realize exactly what the next thing out of your head is going to be, you're going to tell me that my savoir should have been a more all powerful being. Higher power. But who's to say it wasn't. Who's to say my son didn't come along at just the right time to save my life and pull me out of a very poor life style choice. I'll be honest, my life still isn't too great but I do what I can. I do what I have to. For my son. For the reason I am still around.

The more I think about it, the more I can see exactly where I am broken and why. And the more I see it, the more I worry I won't ever be fixed. And the more I worry I won't ever be fixed, the more I fear I will always be alone. Just my little man and me. Never to find a man to marry me, to love me, to treat my son as his own. I almost had it once, or did I? That's the thing about humanity, if it's not right here in front of us we can't tell if it's really there at all.

I think I've had enough for tonight. I think I'm going to go back upstairs, because this whole train of thought started as I watched Sweet November up in my bedroom with my son fast asleep beside me on my arm. I think I'm going to go back upstairs, curl up into a ball and see where to go from here. I may cry like a little girl, but I feel more like I'm going to find some peace. Writing usually finds me peace.

Is it really that time again?

Did we not already go through this last month, Uterus? Come on. Grow up already.


I thought I had some pretty awesome things to say today, but I think I was wrong. All I can think about is cussing out my lady parts. Which I'm sure male readers don't want to read. 


I've been thinking about taking up guitar again. Last Sunday, at church, some mother figures were praying over me and one said to me that I have a song inside me. It was interesting to think about. For as long as I can remember I've wanted to take vocal lessons to train my voice better and have wanted to pick my guitar up again. The problem with my guitar is that, currently, I need a new string. For comedic sake let's just say it's the G string. I need a new G string. (Doesn't that sound funny? Get it? Like the underwear..?) I also need to get a tuner. 


Another thing I want to do is start jogging. But I literally do not own running shows. I also have ridiculous asthma, but I still want to try. I think the last time I went for a jog was before I was even pregnant with Merric and my dog Shmeg was still alive. Well I know it was when Shmeg was still alive because I took him with me and we ran through the field together. It was like something out of a teen-fiction novel. Just a girl and her dog jogging through a field in the middle of the night. Or the start of the night. I think it was about 9 pm. Call that what you want.


I recently tried out a Pilate's DvD I've had around forever. Sweet Jesus am I out of shape. Halfway through I had to turn it off because I felt like I was going to hurl. For anyone who doesn't know Pilate's is basically yoga but with more positions focused on the core. Since getting sliced open, my core is incredibly weak. It sickens and saddens me.


This turned out a lot more emo-ish than I wanted. To make up for it I'll have to leave you with something awesome.... but I've got nothing. 

Snow, of course.

What's the one thing that can make even the ugliest of backyards look beautiful? 

Snow, of course.

Seriously, I love snow. And yes, that's a picture of my actual backyard. Well, only a portion of it. I don't care enough about it, obviously. But I care about snow. 


There isn't enough I can say about how much I love snow. I even love the bite of cold air when you know in less than 5 minutes any uncovered skin will be getting frost bite. The way your nostrils seem to stick together due to the sheer coldness of the air literally freezing your boogers. I love that feeling. 


The only thing I don't like about snow and what brings it, winter, is the wetness. When the snow melts in your front hall and, because you walk around without socks, you step in a puddle. Gah, hate that. But everything else is perfectly fine. 


Any of you reading this that have only rarely experienced snow, I'm sorry. Your life is truly missing out on one of the greatest things. That thing is the wonder of frozen flakes of water. 


For those of you that don't care to read about my love affair with snow, well then we're going to have some issues. You see, I love snow and I live in Canada. Born and raised, which means that I was born for this season. So prepare yourselves, because I'm about to start having blogs all with one common denominator; snow!






P.S, Love Like Winter by AFI is pretty much my anthem this time of year.

Burt Reynolds

It's a little disturbing to realize that there is in fact a celebrity out there whose appearance epitomizes your taste in men. It's even more disturbing when you realize that he kind of looks like your father. 

Apparently, I do not have a single photo of my
father that would show you what I'm talking about. 

I'm curious if other people have had this epiphany yet, and if so who their celebrity "type" is.


Mine? Mine is Burt Reynolds.

I'm not even kidding. This is the sexiest photo in the world.