Swimming naked in alphabet soup

A letter

2007-02-17T01:37:00.000-04:00

I found this while going through old writings. It touched me so much and reminded me of things I have occassionally forgotten.

How much of ourselves are just stories we tell ourselves in the heat of the night or the lull of the day? How much of the inward vision of ourselves is built from personal vows, as tears are wiped away from eyes or hurt words escape our lips and arms are flailing? How much of that inner image is comprised of childhood wounds, damage and disappointments? How much of our internal character derives from what we tell ourselves we should want? How much room do we allow for our real, private truth, desires and dreams? How much time is allotted for such things on a daily basis? Is there any? If there is time and space allowed for our inner truths it’s not near enough. Our inner child is fighting to get out and play and we keep them behind a solid fence, unable to see our current reality, incase they would cry and kick and scream over the unhappiness which is our lives.

It’s 4am. I only left you 3 hours ago and I miss you already. This deep yearning for another being surprises me. This longing is a scary reaction to your absence, scary because I never really wanted to need anyone. Or did I? The better I get to know you, the more about myself I learn. I have begun to realize that many aspects about myself, I thought to be true, were in fact fictional stories I told myself, to protect myself, to portray a façade of a harder person. But if I’m honest with myself, I never wanted to be that hard person, the person with an inpenetratable soul. I wanted to be open. I ached for the connection. I craved the opportunity to be vulnerable, despite my outwardly notions.

I always dreamed of you. I dreamed of such a bond as we share. I hungered for a worthy partner to spar with, laugh with, cry with and grow with. I always wanted to want someone that I couldn’t get enough of. I wanted to want that someone who couldn’t get enough of me. For a long time, I thought that I wanted too much, that I was being unreasonable. I told myself stories about the need to be happy with what I had. I shushed my nagging gut feelings that there was someone out there for me and sat myself down citing some wise relationship guru, “No relationship is perfect.” Of course, this is true. No relationship is perfect. But some relationships are worth the moon and the stars. That is the difference that escaped me before.

While really asking myself the difficult question, allowing my inner child to come out to play and kick and scream, I tried to understand my core, my personal truths. What is “real” is to me? Who am I really? What do I really want? This was no small task, I assure you. Some truths came more quickly than others. The initial one to pop into my head, “This world is unjust.” This is my first truth. Sad really, that the first idea that popped into my head about the reality, in which I live, is so gloomy. But this was the truth which was most apparent to me, after I closed my eyes and cleared my mind. Deep breath.
However, my second truth came shortly after. Deeper breath and then, “This world is beautiful”. This instantaneous yin and yang demonstrated to me the constant strive for balance I have, and the strive, I think, I share with the world, whatever “the world” may be.
Ok. I have to say, I was pretty impressed with those first two truths. They were solid. They were my inner truths that I based my life and existence on. What other inner truth did I have? I sat for a moment trying to clear my head completely so that my next truth would come to me freely. It wasn’t a moment before it came to me, and I was overwhelmed to tears. If there was anything in this world that was true, I knew it was you and I. Me and you. If everything else in the world came crashing down around my ankles and there was still me and you, you and I, then I would be happy. You are my truth, my touchstone, my reality check. You and I have something together that we could never even dream of apart. You and I share a deep-tissue, heart-wrenching kind of love that is written about in epic novels or passed down from generation to generation to remind people that such a connection can and will really happen. I think we both knew of our potential the first moment we ever met. I remember looking into your eyes and seeing behind them, into you. I remember feeling like you could really see me. I shied away at first. Then you shied away. We’ve both taken our turns in trying to withdrawal, but never really being able to do so. I think deep down we knew our truth. Our subconscious knew of our connection before we did. Somehow, we knew of the power and strength we could have together.

Words are just words. Often they mean nothing at all. If I thought that you didn’t understand or feel my truths, I wouldn’t bother letting writing this to you. However, it’s because you understand and feel my truths, it’s because I know you comprehend all this, even without these words, is why we have us. My truth, our truth. You and I. Me and you.

June 18, 2005

How feminist am I?

2007-02-15T19:44:00.000-04:00

How feminist am I that while at my rehearsal of The Vagina Monologues, I am researching Abortifacient Herbs for an article for the online feminist Zine Empowerment4women.org
I’m trying to scrape up the information that was extracted and then denied to my foremothers.

I am very glad I was asked to read a monologue this year. This is my 4th year. The monologues have done so much for me (what can’t you do if you’ve made University admin scream “Vagina!” and “Cunt!” ?) that I wanted to give another woman a chance. I wanted to allow space for another woman to have space to grow and learn and become empowered.

However, since I am a female president of the Graduate Students’ Union and there is also a fellow female in the role of the undergraduate’s Students’ union- this being the first time where there was ever two women presidents- we were asked to read the spotlight monologue. I was flattered and secretly grateful I could participate again this year. I’ve never experienced anything like The Vagina Monologues. It’s wonderful. Sisterhood. Laughing, smiling, crying, healing, together.

Ok, hafta go back to writing…..

New Flickr account!

2007-02-12T00:32:00.000-04:00

Hi!

I got a new FLICKR account everyone! I've put a few pics on already.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/46434665@N00/

2007-02-08T21:52:00.000-04:00

People in Starbucks are so serious. Hands over-emphasizing each sentiment, statement and opinion. Three women, one in a fur coat, talk in arguing tones about friends in hospitals, waitlists and purchases. Everyone is uber professional. Ignoring the people at other tables since that is the courteous and proper thing to do whilst in a public, corporate coffee shop.

No one looks familiar here, even though this city feels so small sometimes. Everyone looks so important, or is trying to accomplish such. A women yells into her earpiece about the need to finish the report before her flight, completely oblivious to all those around her in seemingly equally important conversations. I do the rude thing and try to eavesdrop to try to understand what all these very important people are talking about in these very important conversations but I can’t piece together their plots or story lines. There are words floating around and I catch a few. Email. Information. Selling. Expertise. Process. Salary. Build. Manager. Hope. Finish.

How cosmopolitan of us. Wouldn’t know if I was in a New York Starbucks. I look around and realize my own part in this play. The lone girl, sitting at a table, typing away at her apple laptop.

Mente, sugar-free, non-fat Latte

Our culture, our lives summed up in a product, Fancy, over priced coffee.

And keith enters from his job interview. “I knocked that out if the park.” Oh, the confidence of the male sex. I wish I had been taught it was ok to exude such assurance. Alas, my femaleness and its training would frown on such a declaration. I try to quickly get over my own envy to return my full attention to my partner. He was glowing, grinning from ear to ear, his face red from the cold outside. “But, I have the worst pit stains, ever.” He shows me the round moist circle under his arm and I laugh out loud. Everyone sweats in interviews. The Fight or flight response to intense, potentially life changing stimuli. However, such an amount of perspiration I have only seen on the bodies of men, women maintaining a drier reality even in high stress situations. I smile at our differences and ask him to recite every word spoken in his interview. He takes a deep breath and begins....

Yes, I am one of those ridiculous dog owners, but she's so cute I don't really have any other choice

2007-01-28T21:39:00.000-04:00

Daisy turned One yesterday. Bless her little heart. So, we had a birthday party for her! She had aunts and uncles sending her birthday wishes all day and some of whom dropped by for drinking and gift giving.

I made her a Doggie cake, with cottage cheese icing, which she gobbled up. Keith gave her wine in her bowl, which she drank up! She got many great and thoughtful presents, including one dog toy that was George W.! She tore off his cowboy boot almost right away! What a good girl we have.

Poor thing, today she was hing over. Sleepy and very thirsty. She hasn't taken her "Pink Ladies" coat of since she got it. She loves it.

I love my puppy!
You say ridiculous, I say affectionate!

Restaurant Lists: K and H style!

2007-01-21T22:55:00.000-04:00

Hans and Kelly List

Favorite St. John’s Restaurants

1. Sun Sushi- Best sushi ever! Hans “because they import ninjas to cook for us!”

2. The Sprout –Best Pad thai ever! People are cool! And YUMMY, greasey tofu strips!

3. International Flavours- Quirkiest service ever, where it’s a privilege to get your food! Great curry. Hans, “cause they have the best, most crispy samosas I’ve ever had!”

4. The Gypsy Tea Room- Hans,”Cause they serve alligator-which I classify as a fish!”

5. The Keg – for the salmon Neptune and Tuna dishes. Hans, “because they have the coolest staff!”

6. Basho –for dessert and martini’s

7. Giovani Cabotos- because cool people like it

8. Finnigan’s Wake (when it was on the go)

9. Get Stuffed- new place, great food, great ambiance

10. Bamboo Garden- for hans, Kelly no like

11. The Peppermill- Great fish dishes!

Honourable mention -Ponderosa for Little Hans Ponder-GROSSa, says Kelly

Worst St. John’s Restaurants-----ew!!!!

Oscar’s – 24 hour restaurant, bad just bad

Around the world- Hans can’t remember why

That Thai place we can’t remember the name of (where The Athenian is now)

Casa Grande- “raw burritos make you sick”, says Hans

CHEERS EVERYONE!

Disgustingly Happy in Newfoudland

2007-01-15T00:20:00.000-04:00

Oh my. Life grants me these moments of deep gratitude and I make sure to enjoy them as much as I can.

I just finished this book Mom gave me for Christmas, "This Much Is True", by local author Tina Chaulk. It's a fish out of water story about her, a Newfoundlander who loves everything about this place, a Newfoundlander who wears black on July 1st because it was originally Memorial Day for Newfoundlanders, not Canada Day, a Newfoundlander who just graduated from Memorial University and can't find work so she has to go to "Hell", aka Toronto. It is a delightful and emotional story of her experiences in the 1980s, while in hell. I found myself looking forward to bed time to see what Lisa was up to in her zany but oh-so-relatable life. The city kicks her ass in more ways that I ever thought a city could, but she continues, she survives. There were so many similarities in our stories, sometimes it was down right creepy.

The ending was satisfying, warming and just made me so grateful that I'm still living here. I could still breathe the cool salty air Lisa couldn't wait to taste and hold in her lungs, I could still hear the differing Newfoundland accents she was craving, I could take a drive on any day and watch the waves of the powerful ocean hit the jagged cliffs just like so desired. I'm still here and I'm oh-so-grateful for that. My heart and soul are in this place and I don't have any say over that. Even though I may have a strong desire to travel, see things, meet people and wander the world in my own occasional gypsy ways, this will always be home base. All roads will eventually lead back here.

Pink, White and Green

Between the narrows,
in the purity of the island,
I belong.
Rain, drizzle, fog
bring thanksgiving to the sun.
Floating in the middle of the Atlantic,
still a virgin,
untouched by the rat race.

Stepping off a plane,
I can smell the salt
in the fresh, cool air.
Feels like home.
People around all
talking and laughing
“’Bye, it could be worse!”
Wouldn’t change a thing.

Troubles and wealth,
richer than Voisey’s Bay.
Along the edge,
A Newfoundlander watches
the sea fucking
the jagged cliffs,
over and over and over,
since before the invention of thought.

The waves, cliffs, air, people
all around.
You belong to it,
it belongs to you.
Has your wharf been washed away
by raging storm or dormant government?
The dory turned up in the yard
makes the Newfoundlander’s heart bleed.

My uncle sits and rocks
Speaks of good ol’ days
when he awoke at 4am and braved
the hurricane winds and the 40 foot swells
and came home exhausted and proud.
Another day of his birth rite.
Strange how cold and comfort
can come together.

The island, the place
no Newfoundlander ever really leaves,
where the cod were once abundant,
where everything moves slower-
except the mother tongue,
where there are no real strangers,
where people look after one another
and anything can be solved over a beer.

Newfoundland.
Where the land and sea will accept you
as the child of nature you are.
She’ll hold you to her bosom,
and warm you to your core,
if you let her.

Newfoundland.
Was there ever a more beautiful word spoken?
Newfoundland,
sweet Newfoundland.
Where I graciously call Home.

being sick truly sucks

2007-01-10T14:27:00.000-04:00

I'm sicky and sookie and complainy. My second BAD cold in one month? not fair one bit! Everything hurts. Dizzy. Nauseated. Pain in ears. Throat feels like it's been sanded down with a belt sander. Head feels twice as big as it looks in the mirror.

Keith forbid me from leaving the house today. Goddess bless him. Made me call in sick to both my jobs. A rest day. Good thing. I really need it. Also, I should stay away from people.

Becoming too tired to type. Wow, this is sick. Whaaaaaaa!

So this is Christmas....

2007-01-04T00:16:00.000-04:00

So, Chistmas is just about over *tear* and I told myself I would blog this Christmas, so here I am. I had a wonderful holiday season, with much love, loved ones, good times and sleeping in. I was wonderfully, completely and embarssingly fortunate with the thoughtful and wonderful gifts I was given. Wow, I'm really liking the word wonderful tonight! From my lovely partner I received the Digital Canon Rebel XT I've been wanting for years, along with some great, rare and quirky collectable things he gave me (like this one, for example: http://www.diamondcomics.com/toychest/toys/08_05/12_bd_angelpuppet.htm). Also, from one of my very imaginative and thoughtful friends I got an autographed (to me!) copy of my favourite book "Fear of Flying" by Erica Jong. Nicely done- by the way. I'm still wowed by that! Even though we all stayed up drinking heavily (and playing Monopoly-bad idea) until the early morn, I was awake 7am like a 6 year old wondering if I was good enough to have Santa come and visit me. However, I was told to go back to bed until 8:30. :-(

Christmas day we made a fine feast of Tofurkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potato mashed, carrot and apple delight, and more. We ate until we couldn't move and then reveled in the joy of being full and happy.

The whole time I got 10-12 hours of sleep a day. I watched many episodes of Battlestar Galactica ( do not make fun if you have not seen it from the beginning), ate, drank and was merry. How fortunate am I to be able to enjoy such pleasures? Kings and Queens of the past did not know the luxeries I do!

Gloriously, Christmas was enjoyed.

New Years I worked, which was fine because New Years is always such a let down anyways, and it's hard to turn down a $200 night. Plus, serving people a New Years Eve feast is usually nice.

The picture above is of "Flying Daisy". I took it with my fancy new camera.

I promise to write more. I promise.

Write a novel in one month

2006-11-06T23:35:00.000-04:00

Its National Novel Writing Month this month:

http://www.nanowrimo.org/

Thanks to Sherrie for her never ending plethora of wonderful and ever expanding periphery of tantalizing intriguing links and ideas.

But if I were to write a novel, what would it even be about? I guess it would be a piece of my own reality since I dont know how to write anything else. But, would it be a love story? A heart-breaking story? A feel good story? A movie-at-11 story? Would it be a story tripumph? A story of over coming obstacles in the face adversity? Would it be a story of hurts and smiles? Of stormy weather and sunsets? A story of growth and coming of age or of following ones dreams where ever the cost? Would I write a story to be proud of? Would it be a story that would hurt people? Could it help people? Would I make myself a heroine? Could I also be the villain?

Whats my story? Where would it end? How would it end? Would it be honest - and how would I know it was honest? Would I write for an audience or for myself? Write a novel..one month to write a novel.

Id like one month to write..

Check it out. It sounds magical. There could be an amazing novel under your finger tips. Ill show you mine if you show me yours. ;-)

Sharing is uncomfortable but necessary

2006-10-25T02:05:00.000-03:00

So, I gave my video to someone today. Someone I respect and admire. Someone I kinda have a respectful crush on, but it’s more than that. He was here from “the mainland” to do a talk for us. I had met him last March and he had such an impact on me. His talk and his documentary in fact, was exactly what made me say aloud to my partner, “I am going to make a film. I want to make a documentary.” And within weeks I had made an uber personal film, an autobiographical documentary telling my story, trying to heal myself. It was he who inspired me so I felt it only appropriate that he see it. All too often people affect us in great ways and we never tell each other about it. My film has taught me to reconnect, so I try to practice that when ever possible.

When doing the film, little did I know the massive impact it would have on my life. A few months ago I gave my mom a copy of my film. My brother, sister and father all watched it. I never could have guessed that it would cause my family to lift the 5 or 6 year gag order on “the Julie situation”. I never would have imagined in a thousand years that it would make my parents remember the reality we went through and that they would then force my sister to take responsibility for the hurt she caused. I never ever, ever thought anything could ever make my sister and I be on speaking terms again, but it has. We are going slowly, but we have made promises to the family, each other and I think, ourselves. We have exchanged emails back and forth.

I never ever could have thought that my parents would have apologized for the cruelty they imposed on me. I never thought I would have received an apology for being their scapegoat or for throwing me out of the house.

The day after my family meeting, I was still in shock. I could not even put words to the utter surprise I felt. I think I sat for hours starring at a wall trying to absorb the words shared and spoke. My documentary had done everything I had ever hoped it could have. It brought me closure and healing. It lifted a giant weight off my shoulders. I walked around lighter somehow. Things seemed physically brighter. My parents had had my back. They were not going to put up with my sister bad-mouthing me anymore. They were not going to allow her to push me out of the family anymore. She was made take responsibility. I could not grasp the magnitude of this reality. I was speechless for a full 24 hours, unable to explain things to my partner or my friends. I let my phone go unanswered missing a phone call from my mother. Returning the call, anxiously awaiting some aftermath crisis, I hear my mother on the other end of the phone saying, “I just wanted to tell you that you are the best daughter anyone could ask for”. I’m not kidding. Exact words. I can’t even type that without tearing up.

Here it is, two months later and I’m still in disbelief. This is the first I’ve even written about it.

And back to the situation at hand. I’ve given my insanely personal and rudimentary film to a filmmaker. A great, courageous, accomplished filmmaker, whom I barely know yet greatly respect. Am I mad? There are some powerful butterflies in my tummy that say so. But to paraphrase a theory of Judith Butler’s, to experience real growth and change you have to have to become undone, vulnerable, uncomfortable, unhinged.

Becoming undone. There’s beauty in the breakdown.

Smitten with possibility

2006-10-17T23:35:00.000-03:00

I’m sitting on my bed in my hotel room, rather content, rather intrigued. I’m intrigued with possibility, the possibility of my future.

I’m in Corner Brook. Myself and two of my co-workers came out here to hold a union drive Info Session and to find people to sign union cards. I’ve been here twenty times and never really saw this place before. I’ve become quite smitten with the place, and especially I’m smitten with the Grenfell Campus. It feels like a liberal arts college. Spontaneous art and music, strangers talking to each other, recycling everything available. Beautiful buildings, children running around with wet paint on their hands, theatrical personalities igniting and encouraging one another in hallways, classrooms and lobbies.

Autumn is alive here. The season is a living organism, breathing and changing. The colours surrounding me are beyond vivid. They are flesh and blood. The air is fresh and crisp. The night has revealed her stars to me, suggesting opportunity and promise.

I think I’d like to live here. I think I’d like to teach Women’s Studies at the University. I think I’d like to take some Art courses out here. Not forever, just a year or so. Maybe. I don’t know. I had fantasies of keith and I moving out here, renting (maybe buying? *gasp) a house with a backyard for Daisy. Houses are so affordable here. We’d live simply. We’d hike a lot. We’d go to Gros Mourne all the time. We’d go into town from time to time. We’d fish. Keith would cycle all over the place. We’d enjoy the weekends and evenings. Things would be slower. Fantasies, just fantasies. *sigh*

Of course, this comes in the wake of me applying for a Union Organizer’s job in Winnipeg. I don’t think I will even get an interview, but nonetheless I have imagined myself getting it and starting a new life (with Keith and Daisy of course) in a new place. Not Newfoundland. But could I even leave this place? Could I even leave St. John’s? Would I want to? I’m quietly frightened to death of the possibility of ever having to make such a choice. Of course, the possibility is intriguing.

Possibility. Promise. Warm promise.

The ying, the yang and the love

2006-10-04T23:31:00.000-03:00

So very tired tonight. Working three jobs, none of which pay well at the moment, while still trying to be a Âfull-timeÂ grad student.

Good grief.

Not enough time in the day. Not enough time for sleeping or relaxing or playing. President of the Students' Union. Working to Organize Lecturers. Working as a server at the Keg. Too much.

Recipe for disaster:
Add in one cup of the personal drama of co-workers releasing their own vast stresses directly at you with 4 cups of the fact that my partner, the main ÂbreadwinnerÂ of the house, is loosing his job on Dec. 1st. Mix with 500mL of not-having-a-project-or-supervisor-stress with 3 tbsp of complete lack of sleep and blend all together. Recipe for disaster? Recipe for me.

The push, the pull. The ying, followed by the yang.

The world is simultaneously spitting stress and divulging beauty at me. There are days like today with their compound stresses that make me want to physically run away leaving house and school and work. Packing my bags and heading to the airport with a credit card in hand and no destination in mind. Running away from everything. But there were also times today when I completelyetly overwhelmed by the unrestricted love and understanding of my partner. His caring, his tenderness, his thoughtfulness. He insisted that I go home and take care of myself this afternoon and that I tell work and responsibilities to go fuck themselves. So, home I went. Where I was reminded of our beautiful home and delightful puppy dog. I came home and sat for a moment. I breathed in deep, looked around and I could not but help feel entirely grateful and absolutely appreciative for my fortunate place in life. How many people know the the kind of love I know? How many people feel the kind of love I feel on a daily basis?

I hope many.

:)

2006-10-03T23:42:00.000-03:00

Sexual Energy

2006-10-03T20:45:00.000-03:00

Ah. A few hours alone. Alone to write. Well, not totally alone. My puppy girl Daisy is beside me, but her presence do not demand anything from me or limit what I may say or do.

Wow. A couple hours to sit in the quiet. I never realized how much I enjoy this. I’m currently torn between writing about the latest goings on (and there is a lot to write about) or *gasp* watching some sexy videos to relax….

Well, I’m here aren’t I? But, I am not fully here.

I’m sexually charged and ready to play. Not play with anyone in particular, well, no one that’s around anyways but I want to play. There’s a beauty, an exquisiteness to sexual energy pulsing through your blood. It’s full of promise and anticipation. Everything feels so sexy. There’s a longing to be touched, caressed, kissed, licked. A longing to squirm with anticipation, squirm with pleasure, squirm with an exciting explosion.

I enjoy being a sexual being. I am a sexual person. I often feel stifled, limited, shushed. I’m often plucked back into reality before I want to be. I want to stay in the Sexy-hot-charged world where things feel different. Where food tastes sweeter and the imagination is bolder. I want to go here and be here more often. I want to be more sexual with more people. I want to be more sexual with my partner. I want to be more excited, more aroused, more. I want more anticipation that’s full of promise. I want more fucking at lunch and heavy petting while I drive.

I have so much sexual energy charging on it’s own momentum. Building. I’m more sensitive to the clothes I’m wearing. My is bra rubbing against my nipples as I breathe causing even more sexual energy to produce itself exponentially. I want warm mouths and heaving breasts. I want to shoot stills and video. I want to be reminded of how sexy I am. I want to remind others of their own passion. Passion for sex, passion to life, passion for passion.

Sex is beautiful and powerful and consuming and relaxing. Sex is part of who we are, what we do and how we exist in this world. I think sex, in its many forms should be more welcomed. More respected, more cherished, more understood for what it is, what it can be and what it’s not. Sex is very different for every person and any different time of day or year or life. We are all walking about sexually charged one way or another. We need to realize and celebrate this more. Some people do realize this and for those people I am truly grateful.

Thanks.
I needed this outlet. I need more sexual energy outlets. Actually, I think we all do.

Now time for sexy videos, or the sexy pictures I got today.

☺

Journal excerpt

2006-09-22T22:31:00.000-03:00

Written in Journal the end of July, 2006, 3am.

I’m lying here writing, while Keith is next to me. This is a first.

But – it’s summer. It’s late and I’m awake. I’m always taken summer nights for introspection and self-discovery.

I keep acknowledging it, but I can’t seem to start writing again. I must have made a dozen attempts or so, all single entries. Alone. Discontinued. Disconnected. I want to be more friendly with my words, my thoughts. I know that much. Funny how I can only seem to write with a pen and a book, not on my laptop. I just can’t seem to connect the same with a word processor.

I think I find the actual act of physical cursive writing both expressive and therapeutic. Despite possible font changes, a word processor cannot express the position or mood I am in like open flowing cursive. In the word processor all the letters are uniform and unvarying. The letters do not bare any expression. Mistakes and erased, misspellings are corrected as if they never existed. No memory of faults, the wrong spellings or the pen running out of ink.

Maybe that’s why I like writing with my free flowing pen. Maybe I feel confined by righteous technology. Maybe I like the rawness of just me and a silky lined paper. I like the primitiveness. I like the fact that for hundreds of years thousands of women, like me, poured their souls out into this age old non-judgemental vessel.

I like the history. I like the quietness. I like the fact that in my book, the words will not be erased my virus or incompatable software.

I love my book, my paper journal,

little by little

2006-06-27T09:53:00.000-03:00

The fact is, I haven't written more than a grocery list in well over two years. Very strange for a person who has journals dating back to grade 4. I have my whole life's growth, regressions, mistakes, risks and happiness written down in a journal. All my journals are now in my cedar and oak chest, in my office. Ready at will to spill my inner secrets, outer woes and everything I could imagine in between. But there's a gap. As though my story has stopped, when it most certainly has not.

The only other time in my life which I didn't write was after Matt died. I didn't write for the whole 9 months after that. I couldn't, wasn't physically able to. Funny how my coping mechanism for almost everything else in my life seems to not exist as an option when I need it most.

I remember my first journal entry after her died. It was after my period of denial. After I went crazy. After I pushed away every person in my life. It was when I was trying to put my pieces back together again. It was when I was climbing the hill, from the valley and I could almost see the plateau on top.

But, I've been on this plateau for quite some time now. Almost a year. It's been almost a year since I was seriously sick. I mean sure, there were bad days starting off, but nothing that would ever compare to the pain and outbursts of before. I got out. I left the backwards medical system behind me where they said I may never get better, and set off into my own journey with my will and need to get better to drive me.

It's a process. It's still happening. This is part of the process. Re-emerging into myself, my writing. The fear that once I write down that I'm happy and healthy again, everything will begin dismantling is still strong. It's sitting beside me as I type. But, writing used to be mine and I'm reclaiming it.

poppin' the cherry-blog style

2006-06-27T00:07:00.000-03:00

Words have been elusive to me since........since I was so sick. Physically sick. So sick I isolated myself from myself, my words and my world. Two years and change later, I'm trying re-grasp my words, myself.

An outlet, a catalyst, a route to reconnect to writing, digging deep, understanding and wriggling in word thought.

Now, where to start.......