New Year//No Fear

I live in an interesting world.My car is broken and I feel so passive about it that I’m wondering if I should even bother to keep it. Maybe I’ll fix it and pass it on.

Yesterday, when walking to Jojo’s to get the house sitting, dog/cat/chicken run down, I ended up in a good old Canadian traffic stopper. Darcy, a local mechanical guru, saw me walking and stopped to offer a ride. We chatted on the roadside for a half hour about cars. He says to just call him when I’m free and we’ll see what’s wrong with my car.

When I got to Jojo’s, they handed me $120. It was confusing. I didn’t expect to get paid to watch Netflix, pet chickens and talk to a dog for 3 days.

Ally called me and needed help. Her and Rob are ill. Could I go to the cafe and finish refinishing the floors? She let me keep her car overnight.

I ended up working an hour shift at the pizza place. Another $15 and a free pizza.

When I brought the car back today, Ally demanded to pay me for my work. I tried to refuse, it was only 45 minutes. She gave me baby bell cheese, gluten free chocolate cake, $20 and a whole smoked salmon (it’s good until November 2022, no added preservatives. The amazing power of smoked meat!).

Tomorrow I’ll be 4 months sober.

I had a dream on Christmas night about getting totally boss hagged. I woke up the next day to find my room mate just shredded on the couch. When I returned home, 5 hours later, he hadn’t moved. I made him tea and Kraft Dinner. I gave him a gingerbread cookie I had made. I know all too well what a body destroying hang over feels like.

I never want to drink again.


Even if I feel the draw towards it. The cold and clammy hand of a can of beer gripping for mine.
Fuck that shit.
It’s all a waste of time.
I need to remember that while I’m hanging out with PDad when he’s working at the liquor store. I need to remember my strength and resolve when I think about the dozen of failed quit smoking attempts I’ve crawled through the last few months (last year).

Soon, we’ll all be referring to 2016 as “last year”, as in “a time that’s passed”.

I’m going to think of it as “last year; as in the last year of my life that I did all this shit.”

The last year I ever drank. The last year I ever smoked. The last year of my life that I put up with abuse dynamics and bull shit. The last year that I ever let fear stop me from tearing down the cities in my mind.
2016, thank you for all the things you brought me. All the beauty and strength. All the love, compassion and kindness. For the gentle and soft souls who’ve touched me deeper than I yet understand.
Thank you for almost destroying me. Taking with you the lives of friends as your days passed. For stealing pieces of the ones I love and loved ones of those I care for. For taking parts of me with you and dragging them out over the rocks of your shorelines while I watch, injured and helpless trying to find strength.
Thank you for letting me dismantle my ideas of how things should be so I can move forward. Because there’s no where else to go but forward.
Thank you for almost being over.
2017, the best of both worlds. Let’s hold hands about it?


A Mantra.

Working for a living actually brings you closer to death.
I’ve been working every day, not fully living, crawling closer to death. Or, at least that’s what it seems like.

I’m wondering if I’m doing it to avoid how I feel, or if the reasons I’m telling myself I’m doing this are the whole truth: sometimes money buys dreams.

Maybe I’m doing it to cope? Maybe it’s because I don’t know what else to do with myself right now? I feel in limbo. I feel impatient. I feel aimless. I always feel scared.

Soon there won’t be any more work till spring.
I fucking quit (maybe?)
“Fuck work. Don’t work if you don’t want to.” -Keith (he pays me for shit). Smart.

If I work enough, then I can become working. It’ll destroy me.
Take apart my mind piece by piece and lose half of them.
Maybe I’ll find new places inside myself, like a walking meditation, like an introspective mushroom trip.
Maybe I’ll just find that dark space that sucks the life out of me through my rented hands.

And I wonder “is this better than drinking?”.
Don’t answer that, I could barely finish the thought.

The answer is yes, if it’s a choice between the two.
The answer is no, if it’s a question with more than two choices (because the other choices could be better than work or drink and there are a lot of them).
The answer is: I guess so. If it’s what I need to do right now to be safe. If it’s because I’m lacking the fight in me to do many other things. If it’s easier than choosing something different when I don’t have the mental stamina to choose. If so many things and stories and deaths and near deaths and sadnesses ride my mind. If sometimes all the heartache of life gets through and into my deepness. If it’s only temporary and I’m conscious of it. If it’s because sometimes surrendering myself to hard challange and fighting to make it through is a different way for me to feel real.

I need to feel real.
I don’t feel real.
I’ll feel real again soon.

Yeah, it’s better than drinking.

I wonder how I can live in such a mental duality so continuously for so long without tearing myself apart and becoming two people. I’m so strong and resilient. So sensitive and emotional. Today, I feel both hopeful and hopeless. I feel present and very far away and outside of myself.

My room mate and I have been having a continuous early morning conversation about how nothing really matters.
Nothing Matters: A Mantra.
In a world where everything is so subjective and fragile and momentary, what actually matters? Do your bills matter? Or what you had for lunch? That you had to work today? Does it really matter if you quit your job? Burn all your notebooks? Yell at the ocean? What about if you do the dishes? Clean your room? Run away?

How you feel matters.
How you feel about everything is really the only thing that matters.
Feelings matter.

But what if you can never totally tell how you feel? What if something happened to mess up how you understand your feelings? So, now you never know if your feelings are lies twisted around inside your mind, tying up your heart all fucked and knotted in your throat. So you try to be the best person you can be but never know if you’re actually letting yourself be true. Are you really trying?
Choking on your own heart beat, confused and at a loss for words. Wondering if anything matters, wondering how to feel real.

What if you don’t know how to feel things properly because some time in your past you were made to believe that your feelings are crazy, made up and wrong. You’ve spent so much time trying to untangle those lies that your fingers bleed from the rawness of undoing the knots. Blood has gotten on everything. It’s smeared across the panorama of your ideas on how to feel and it obscures the details. It makes you wonder if there’s more that’s been obscured, but you can’t quite tell. How many details do you miss? How many forgiving’s can you give before you find that walking away was a better idea? How late will you be to leave? How intensely you feel, but what do you name these feelings? What if you’re just trying to be good, but you’re actually being too kind? Too sensitive? Too insensitive?
Can you trust yourself anyway?
Should you trust yourself…?

So, if nothing really matters but your feelings, and you can’t trust your feelings, what the fuck can you trust? and if you can’t trust something, how can it matter? fuck.

I feel nauseous.

I feel tired. I feel avoidant. I feel dishonest with myself. I feel restless and over worked. I feel like it’s almost time to go. It’s almost time to do. It’s almost time to hurry up and wait.
I feel hopeful. I feel like I’m trying to believe in something big. I feel scared. I feel skeptical. I feel desire. I feel drive and growth and change. I feel.


63 days.
So many things can happen in two months.
I’m not sure if time actually exists, or if it’s just some abstract concept we’ve made up to try and help explain our existence.
I feel like my mantra has been “fuck everything” since the dawn of it all.
Why are feelings so real? and why do I have to feel all of them so intensely all of the time (or nothing).
I partied fucking hard this weekend. Sober. Smoke free. Nothing to hide behind but my half assed attempt at being bitter and old (but am I really either of those things?)

I keep forgetting who I am. Maybe I’ll figure it out if I can remember to write more. Maybe I’ll figure it out if I remember to try to find meaning in everything.

Maybe I should just stop talking and think about it all again before I let everyone know what I’m thinking.

Break It Down

47 days sober and smoke free.

I’ve been falling behind on journaling, creating and working on this tumblr project.

I feel like I hit a wall again. It happens sometimes, hard and fast. I’ll start feeling like I’m on a roll with everything. As if I have the full energy, intelligence and ability to keep going, to build more drive and focus. Then my heart drops out of my chest, or… I don’t know?

It seems like so much shit has happened in my life. Right now, it all feels horribly overwhelming and unsorted. Like it’s all just been dumped out into a shitty pile of experiences. Thoughts and feelings that I’m expected to sort through and put back together. How am I supposed to remember the order of things? And why do I care so much if a lot of it is shit that I wish had never happened anyway?

Why should I feel like this?
This over bearing feeling that all the bad has taken over the all good.

And I feel like you stole my 20′s from me.
You berated me and held me back from my full potential.
You hit me, yelled at me, isolated me.
You held me down and fucked my body.

And you wouldn’t let me find the words to ask for help.
You stole those words from me and twisted me into crazy.
And, even if I had found those words,
the world is so full of people just like you,
and they don’t want to listen.

They don’t give a shit about what I have to say.
And the ones who want to care are all still to broken to know how to save themselves.

I woke one year four months and twenty one days ago,
and I wasn’t 20 any more.
I wasn’t going to be 20something ever again.
And you can’t ever fucking take that from me.

I’ll never give up what I am to become.

You can chase me,
You can catch me,
But you’ll never take my spirit.

30 Days

30 days. No smoking, no drinking, no coffee. (I also didn’t have any sweets today!).
It’s 12:13am, day 31.
I ran away to Vancouver early to be around sober-quit everything pals. Also because I just needed to be around certain pals,and some of them feel like they need me.
I had horrible dreams last night. Similar to the ones I used to have a few years ago in the time following being assaulted by a person I was involved with and also leaving an abuser. It was a hard day of re-living a lot of shit I just don’t have the energy or strength for.
It was a hard day just trying to exist and feel real.
I’m going to America soon.
Everything will be alright one day.

I know I’m getting better,
because there’s no other way.


I woke up at 6am, no alarm. No problem. There was a show at the house I’m staying at last night. I got to see a pal of mine I haven’t seen in a while and some sick bands and other friends.

No smoking, 14 days! Yessss. (All I want to do is chain smoke and chug the fuck out of some coffee)

Someone pointed out to me that I’m tough af for quitting coffee, smoking and going totally sober all at the same time. I’d like to agree with them. This shit is hard. It’s real. It’s real hard.

I’m playing a solo show for the first time in years tonight. I’m tripping hard about gender lately. My period snuck up on me and surprised me 6 days early like a shitty house guest.

I’m a beautiful crisis.