All my life, and to my parents’ utter consternation, I have always been something of a misfit.  Never could walk the straight and narrow.  Always spoke out of turn and skipped to the beat of a different drummer.  Some of my friends have quipped that I am a “rebel with too big a cause”.   However, I don’t consider myself a rebel of any kind whatsoever.  In fact, I think the term is a tad over-rated.  There are a lot of self-titled “rebels” out there who, well how should I say it? Certainly don’t have a cause to speak of or are rather ineffective in their rebellion, for that matter.  I think what people misconstrue in me as rebellion is merely the manifestation of bipolar disorder, a bad fashion sense, and a borderline personality disorder, all stirred together into a roiling pot of absolute dysfunction.  Rather boring when you get right down to the brutal reality of it, don’t you think?  I don’t waste a blink of an eye fussing over it.

I used too, oh, did I ever.  My state of misfitness caused me a constant grief.  Why couldn’t I be like all of my friends?  Why did I have to be the only one who was forever blatantly bizarre?  Couldn’t someone else take a turn once in a while?  Was I the single person on this Earth to ponder the thoughts that came unbidden to my mind?  I seemed to function on a different plain of reality than others around me.  My universe of reality happened to be a freakdom of quirky weirdness where as everyone else’s seemed so Norman Rockwellish.  My reality seemed to clash with everyone else’s with a resounding clang.  Oh, I tried to fit in, try I did, but how can you forcibly cram a hexagon into a triangular hole?  Eventually one of the shapes loses its mind. 

It stung to know that if I could only be less of me I would be more like them, and I would have more friends.  I would see that poorly cloaked look of fear in other’s eyes when my pretense of normalcy would eventually give way and my true self would be revealed.  I still feel a deep sense of loneliness at the thought of how many people have passed through my life, how many have been frightened off.  But, now, at my age the deep longing to be part of a large social scene has tapered off considerably.  As I glean more and more experiences with the complicated world of social graces I find myself shrinking back from it.  Perhaps, because I have been bitten too many times, and perhaps, I just don’t need it anymore. 

It seems the “thing” to do lately to write a life list.  So, here is mine:

1. Love kindly
2. Love patiently
3. Envy no one
4. Avoid being boastful, conceited, rude, or hurtful
5. Live unselfishly
6. Not be quick to take offense or to offend (give a biting word)
7. Not be critical, but when the situation demands, constructive
8. Love without prejudice or censorship
9. To be a witness to others of what life should be, can be, and will be if they just love themselves enough to hope for a better day.
10. Enter The Dakar Rally
11. Enjoy every moment my husband and I spend together, not focus on our individual shortcomings, but celebrate the strength of the tie that binds us.
12. Teach my son to love himself and others
13. Watch my son grow into a faithful and good man
14. One day act with my son on stage
15. Take more pictures of my family
16. Hug and kiss my son as many times as possible in a day, even if he no longer thinks its cool
17. Cuddle with my husband on the couch every chance possible
18. Make sure to feed the hamster more often
19. Never let those I love feel unloved for even one moment
20. Write the story of my grandmother’s youth as a maid in Winnipeg
21.  Be able to celebrate our 70^th Wedding Anniversary with our family all around us.
22. Forgive those who have hurt me, even if they don’t want forgiveness, and learn to love them as human souls in need of compassion.
23. Learn from my mistakes
24. Teach my son to be strong of spirit and character.   
25.  Live strong, die strong
26. Let the lost and unloved of the world know that they are found and adored.
27. In the end to have given more than I have taken
28. Become a professional jeweler
29. Hold thanksgiving meals for all the people I can find who are “orphans of the world”.  I have always dreamed of a huge table with many different people seated around enjoying my food and finally finding a true family.  Year after year opening my heart and home to all those in need.
30. See my mother healthy again
31. See my father enjoying his well deserved retirement
32. Write “Cold Ethel”
33. Visit the Inca mummy Juanita in Peru
34. Explore the countries of Chile, Peru, and Argentina
35. See the rose red city of Petra
36. Walk the streets of Constantinople
37. Earn an Archeology/Anthropology degree
38. Ride a horse at least one more time in my life.  Really ride, no trail rides, like old times
39. Be able to speak and write 5 or 6 languages, maybe even some of them ancient ones, I already know a fair bit of Latin
40. Never stop learning
41. Teach my son the wonders of learning and the ancient world
42. See a penguin in the wild
43. Study hunter-gatherer tribes and their cultures
44. Set up a fully functioning psychiatric ward attached to the hospital in my home town
45. Learn to construct everything from clothes, jewelry, shoes, to little music boxes and intricate lockets that hold tiny theatres inside controlled by pretty dangling chains that move little figures and set pieces within
46. Stop putting off things of today for an ever elusive tomorrow
47. See some of my jewelry showcased in a real store
48. Write more, get all these scattered thoughts out of my head
49. Go to a rock concert with my son
50. Teach my cats to clean my house while I am not there

September 5th, 2006 

Last night I went to my grandmother’s bedside, it was late, the room was dimly lit.  She lay in her hospital bed, lost amid a jumble of pillows and blankets.  She is presently at home in palliative care making her way from this world to the next.  She is dying.  It was a promise my mother and her sisters made to her before she became so gravely ill.  They promised her she could die at home with her family there to care for her.  She was awake, something she had not been for a few days now.  When I entered the room and saw her eyes open and her head turned towards the sound of my steps, I felt the surge of such a bittersweet blessing.  I was fortunate to steal yet another moment of her life before it was gone to me completely.

I stood beside her bed and leaned closer so she could hear my voice.  To my surprise she reached up and cradled my face in her hands, she smiled upon me and her eyes were filled with such joy to see me again.  When I left her that night I could still feel the cool touch of her hands on my cheeks; I wanted it to linger there forever.  I couldn’t bear the thought of never feeling her touch once more.  Every time I leave her there in her solitary room I think it may be the last time I will share a moment with her.  I feel so greedy because I want just one more last moment to see the resilience in her eyes and feel her life presence.  You can never have that last moment, because you always want one more, and then one more, there is never the quintessential last moment to last you the lifetime you must live without them. It is not that I feel I must have that final chance to say my farewells, that is done and I have no fear whether or not she knows how much I adore her, that is unspoken.  It is the hollow reality of not sharing another moment with her again.

She is one of the most influential and strongest figures to ever have molded and guided my life, both Earthly and Spiritual.  I have to thank her for the many blessings of having such a powerful witness to what life on this Earth should be; she often helped me find an illuminating light in the darkness of my emotionally dark world.  Throughout my life she has always been there, as a teacher, a caregiver, a spiritual guide, a trusted friend, a beloved grandmother.  When I came back to this province, a broken single mom, she taught me that even the fallen have their right to dignity and the tenderness of her presence told me I could run away from home, but never go far enough to leave her heart.  Being in my grandmother’s presence has always felt like coming home.  To think that I won’t be able to share any more moments with her is the most heartbreaking thought.  It feels as if a pillar of strength inside my soul is being knocked down and leaving the roof of my heart to sag.

But, I know she is joyous to return home.  And, I am happy for her.  And one day, when I am taking that walk between here and eternity, she will be waiting there for me with welcoming arms.  And we can walk around heaven all day.  I will be in her presence once more, and then there won’t ever be a last moment of parting again.      

June 1st, 2006

How does one live a life that is sustained on a diet of self contempt?  It is a cruel meal to force oneself to swallow at the end of every day.  One starves oneself of any morsel of joy throughout the day so when one does feed upon one’s sparse groats of self loathing it is with an intense desire to starve the soul rather than to nourish it.  One’s soul grows steadily thin and frail, unable to bear its own weight.  To many on the outside one becomes the object of pity or distain, what drives one to banish oneself inside often mirrors itself outward and creates pariahs of the self loathing in society as well.

I know what it is like to live this existence.  I am one of the self loathing.  I have lived this way for so many years now I honestly don’t know how to do anything else.  It is because of this hatred I harbor towards myself that I have allowed my body and mind to be tortured repeatedly throughout the years.  I had no value for my flesh or mind, so why should anybody else as well?  All I wanted to do was punish myself for existing and this I did in abundance.  I believed I was ugly.  And, in truth, I was, hatred in any form is ugly.  I just didn’t understand what was ugly about me and how this ugliness was making me that way.  I still suffer from self loathing, struggle with it every day.  But, now I recognize it for what it is.  Insecurity, low self esteem, bipolar disorder, ISSUES.  I am slowly trying to like the inner invalid, but it’s not easy. 

Before I could open my eyes, as my eyelids fluttered in a struggle to free themselves from sleep, I felt myself breathe.  The air slowly filled my lungs with a soothing coolness that as I exhaled I felt a calm flood my body.  I inhaled deeply once again and my eyes opened wide as I stared at the ceiling above me.  I held the air in my lungs for as long as I could, then I slowly let it go through my nostrils.  I felt somewhat lightheaded.  But, a dreamy satisfied smile bent softly at the corners of my lips.  I enjoyed the sensation, the mere pleasure of just being able to take my next breath and feel it invigorate my body in such a heady way.  The thought struck me that I was 34 today, next November I would be 35.  I squished up my face and buried it into my pillow, pulling the blankets over my head at the same time.  I could hear my husband in the kitchen below making coffee, opening the cupboards seeking out the coffee mugs and the needed grounds.  As the faucet turned on I sunk back into semi-consciousness and a dream caught me unawares. 

At once I was both 16 again, but still 34.  The elder in me watched mutely as the youth of myself charged forward into her future without a caution for life or limb.  The careless youth did not realize yet that there was more to lose than just a life, but a soul as well.  The future for her burned fiercely bright and it’s wick intensely quick.  She would scrape her knees on the rough concrete of reality and dash her skull against the walls of dysfunction, whose bricks were so very thick.  My elder self with pity and heavy heart asked the youth of 16 “What plans do you have for the future?” She merely smiled a sly smirk and answered “That is if I make it that far, tomorrow is a lifetime away for me.” 

With those words ringing throughout my thoughts I was roused from my dreams by the sound of the coffeemaker percolating.  I lay there very still nestled in the bedding perusing my thoughts.  I never would have believed so long ago that tomorrow would lead to the age of 34.  That I made it to 30 is a miracle.  I closed my eyes tightly and inhaled deeply through my nostrils feeling the air filling my lungs. I just breathed, because I could.  My fingers spread about the blankets and they grabbed it in bunches and pulled it closer about my body.  I lay wrapped in the duvet quietly giving thanks to that murderous youth I was who sought to kill every trace of my being, blot it from existence.  Why? You say.  Well, because as cunning and skillful as she was her prowess was never honed fine enough.  She was never quite the assassin for the task.  And because of this intrinsic flaw a  daughter, a mother, a wife, a sister, and a survivor was spared.  The aroma of coffee was becoming increasingly stronger as I heard my husband’s footsteps heavy on the stairs.  A smile wriggled across my lips.  I giggled and hid deeper under the blankets.  This was my life now.  And I felt a strange peace to know deep down inside that I had outlived a terminal illness, in a way, at least up to this point, that was vindicating enough.  To come out the other side knowing that that 16 year old would only haunt me in my dreams, and hopefully never attempt to take my breath away again, or succeed.    

I sit here kneeling with my brow pressed hard up against the smooth surface of the bottom of my bathtub.  My arms are wrapped tightly against my chest and my hands are clenched around my upper arms.  I can feel my fingernails biting deeper into the skin they so viciously harbor.  The pain I feel as it throbs down the arteries of my arms only feeds my mood of lust for release, to appease the voracious hunger of the black abyss whose maw opens within me with an insatiable appetite for the torture of my flesh and soul.  My lips part, I suck in a breath, water mingles with air and it throws me into a fit of coughing.  The shower sprays my back with water that has long turned too cold to bring comfort, but too warm to satisfy my longings.  My hair, jet, like the stone, clings and claws at my cheeks, the trickles of water along my temple drag it into my eyes and nostrils.  Through the distortion of tendrils of hair and streams of water, I catch a lovely hue.  The pools of water on the bottom of the tub dilute it as it collects underneath my chin.  I glance at my naked thighs and see that they are painted a crimson red that drips over my knees.  I know the cold water will only help, not heed the flow.  The pain in my arms suddenly becomes a stinging, stabbing sensation.  I eat it up like I am starved.  Yes, I have carved myself up with the bits and parts of a disposable razor.  Not the first time, but hopefully the last.  Inside I can feel the rise of elation, its over.  In my life I have held a fickle friendship with death, at times a lonely lover who knows my every whim and weakness, at others a dreadful silence.  But now I only see him as a means to an end.  Nothing else prevails, not my son, not my husband, just the end of a life not so well lived.  But, I have always lived on the razor’s edge, my lips curve into a sneer at that thought.  Crimson, blood everywhere, it splashes on my face, my hands, I am not afraid, just fascinated.  I smile as my body rocks to and fro; my head kicks back in reaction to the sensations that course through my body.  Knocking, knocking, then pounding, and yelling, damn it, not now, it’s my husband.  He wasn’t meant to be a witness to my ecstasy, not back for hours was what I had understood.  The door slams open; it’ll leave a dent that will stay there for weeks after.  I don’t make a sound, but the curtain rips back anyway.  I feel strong hands grab me by the back of my arms dragging me kicking and screaming from the shower.  Blood sprays the ceiling as my hands flail; why I know this cuz I have to clean it off later.  Profanity spews from my mouth, everything within that dark place utters forth.  Towels smother me, I can hear his voice loudly barking orders at me, but it all seems disconnected, unreal.  Before I know it I’m in the car, clothes all a skew, and its racing at an illogical pace toward the city, and the place I know so well.

This is JUST an experience that has been noted in the diary section of my site.  It is NOT meant to glorify suicide or self abusive behavior.  In a state of stability I am able to fully comprehend the true nature of suicide and the heartbreaking ramifications it has on the family of it's victims.  I in NO way, shape or form condone the practice of taking one’s life.  I am sharing this experience in the hopes that it prevents another person from making the same mistake in judgement that I made.

Today is a day, an episode of time which envelopes me like a cocoon.  It makes me feel like I am both soothed and protected by its kindly embrace, but yet suffocated by its cloying nature.  I find myself propelled through it as if driven by an internal desire to hurry through every second as if it were my last. But as each is rushed and pressed to its breaking point I feel a melancholy as if I had wantonly wasted a moment that could have been a brilliant flash in my life, if only I had held onto it a bit longer. 

 Perhaps, the moment would have breathed a profound experience into my some what emotionally threadbare existence.  I might have shared a particularly touching exchange of sentiment between myself and another member of the human race.  Funny, how I seem to cling to the need to be aloof to the process of life itself, but yet so desperate to feel anything besides this pervasive numbing sensation that tarnishes my very self awareness and impinges on the sentient experiences of my life. 

I crave the deep etch of emotion and the feel of life’s existence upon my soul that excites the stimulation of adrenaline in the chemical make-up of my central nervous system.  When I interact with intimate and significant relationships in my small immediate world of social awareness I need meaningful interplay.  I want my dearest to know how deeply they are loved; how powerful the connection I share with them truly is.  Then there is what I desire deep inside.  I want no demand excitement.  My whole existence, both flesh and bone, screams out for the trip and slide of unseen fingers upon the senses of my self, teasing me, enticing me, the cruelty of a desire fulfilling itself with a force too potent to withstand.  

In the same moment when my consciousness feels the throes of these intensities there is this numbing that exudes its control over my mind.  It holds sway over my thoughts, my desires, it sneers at the turbulent fluctuations of fervor that causes my soul to writhe this way and that.  It demands that I halt this asinine behavior, numbing the inner tides of my desires to a disdaining nothingness, a deadly calm.  I slip into a melancholic fog.  A cerebral landscape that is clothed in a blanket of paralyzing mists and a thought chilling pervasive numbing in the air that prevents me from all cognizant processes.  It is as if my mind has deemed my conscious awareness too needy to be so rapt by its emotional turmoil and must disconnect, distance itself from an onrushing tide of desire and sentiment.     

There have been times I have pined for this very melancholic fog to find me so that I could silently slip deep within its reaches and become engulfed by an embrace of numbing cerebral mists.  When in the land of shifting shadows pain cannot successfully hunt you, or startle its prey (you) in an unknown corner of the mind, it cannot find you long enough to narrow in on its mark.  The mists slip before your heart; before the trauma that stalks you can let an arrow fly.  However, to live in this shadowy world of cloistered thoughts and thick blankets of numbness that buffer one’s emotions from one’s heart can also be a dangerous one.  A person can be so entranced in this escapist delusion his/her mind has created for him/her, that he/she may not know when or how to leave when the time is of a dire necessity.  You cannot exist in this world of wisps and blankets of foggy embraces for an extended time or you will lose your path to this world, and to those you love. 

Dart and duck as you may, there is a time when the mists will evaporate before your eyes and you must face the demons that have stalked you, oh, so long.  I have had to turn and feel the piercing of the arrow head as it slides through the flesh of my soul.  And all the torment and woes have burst before my mind’s eye.  Crumpled and crippled I have had to work the dart out from my very heart of hearts.  I have felt it shred what integrity I had left as it ripped its way back out.  But, all wounds heal and also leave scars for us to remember from where we have come, and from what we have fled, and what we have conquered.  Eventually the numbness turns to a dogged, yet jaded determination, acceptance, and the mists pass away.  And we all survive to a degree.   

This isn’t an extraordinarily special day.  This span of 24 hours that shall pass from dawn to dusk and then end in the still frozen chill of another winter sunrise.  Fate had not determined a series of significant events for my loved ones or me on this the 7^th of January, 2005, but I have other inclinations, aspirations.  I have decided to cast back a ways to the one I “used” to be, just a bit, not in everyway, just slide into my previously “used” skin, take the clothes I stashed at the back of the closet out into the light of day once again, feel a modified touch of the old punk attitude for a time, now that my son is ten.  I guess I feel he has matured enough that I can express myself without any danger of my child misunderstanding the statement I am making in my approach to my apparel or musical choices.  I firmly believe that my son has an established impression of my character and standards by this point in his life, how I dress (I must stress that I don’t expose unnecessary areas of my body or wear disturbing apparel) and the music I listen too will not effect his core belief in who I am.  I have found, unfortunately, punk rock is not a kid friendly forum of musical expression and I have had to be extremely careful in my choice of artists and songs (My son listens to most of the music that I listen too.)  I am not reliving a dead past, dead no, alive, very much alive, never died, it has been intrinsically entwined in the very fiber of every moment of my life, every thought process that snapped across the synapses of my brain, since the very moment the present formally became my past.  I am not trying to desperately stay forever young because I treasure the honor of claiming to have tread this Earth another day longer rather than another day less.  When a child looks upon my countenance I want them to follow the map of my laugh lines and weathered creases, let them trace the routes of my tears and the crevices left by battles won or lost to discover the true nature that lies beneath.  I like who and what I am now, far more than who I was then, but I also desire to merge the two once in a while because it was who I was then that made me who I am now.  I never stopped being me.  I grew up, took on responsibilities that warranted appropriate behaviors from me, and granted something’s did change and fall by the way side, but I never lost myself during any of those changes.  And now that the time has come that I can carefully slip back into myself, taking the good, not the bad, I only hope that I don’t meet with too much disapproval from those around me.  This is sort of an experiment.  Let’s see how long my mother will tolerate this.  Or perhaps this is all just a slight manic episode.