Existential Anxiety

The existential anxiety of not knowing where I belong, or what I believe about home or really where I’d go if I wasn’t going where ever the fuck it is I’m going… which is seemingly everywhere and no where.
Working on making a plan for the next 5 months that involves driving around America, playing music and meeting new people. I have no idea what else to do with myself and I’m still not totally sure this is what I should be doing.
But, well, I’m already doing it. Booking shows, spending hours and hours on the internet contacting complete strangers, not getting a lot of shows booked. Getting in touch with old contacts and making plans. Writing emails to the ones I hold close that say things like “I miss you too” and “I don’t know when I’ll see you next, but I’m coming to find you”
It’s already been 5 months since I left “home” and I really don’t have any idea what home  actually is? A neurotic space where I can pace and wonder and worry and build my mind up to a million concerns?
At least I know I feel better, in most ways, when I’m in motion. But for some reason, I always have this strong feeling of longing. A deep loneliness that can’t be soothed or pacified. A confusion. A misplaced heart that beats irregularly.

Somethings change, somethings stay the same.

Some people will be missed and some people do the missing.

Where do we go from here?

Advertisements

Where’s your paddle?

Floating up Shits Creek with the rest of it all.

Run Like Hell. I ran, it doesn’t work and I know that.

I’m not running away and I know I’m not running towards anything. This time I’ll just run because I want to. I like the motion. 
The Lost Kids; taking the world by storm and making threats but not following through on the promises we make to ourselves.
Failed communication, lost dreams, faded and patched hope. Internal wars that never cease their battles. It’s never quiet or easy or calm.

Smoking cigarettes to cure idle hands that need to hold on to something, but nothing is permanent. Nothing is solid or substantial enough to help us touch down.

Whiskey nights in a northern place where the season makes it so the sun never goes down. Perpetual day light with no darkness to hide from ourselves.

Opioid overdoses in mini vans at camp grounds. The lost drive to thrive and just an instinct to survive. Lost drive, broken power steering. Find the light in a place so saturated with sun that all you can see is the darkness. 

I sit in the emergency intake and try to explain why the narcan kit needs a refil. Why no one called 911. Why it’s ok, we just need more narcan. 

Broken hearts, broken dreams, broken bones, broken minds. All I can do is sit and wait and hope and help. Fight for my own part in all of this, fight for tomorrow and hold hands.

Try to understand the stories, the heart ache and trauma. Why it’s ok to cry or shake or just feel nothing. 

I need more but I don’t know what it is or how to look for it. Aimless and lost in the chaos of things and feelings.

I wonder if I’m missing something that was just never there to begin with. I wonder if my feelings are a result of some ideal or a learned belief that there is something more out there for all of us. A deeper meaning, a meaningful end game. I wonder how heart ache might be telling me lies and if I’m even believing them. Does it fucking matter anyway? I’m sick of missing people. Sick of feeling so much and so stuck with the dialogue in my own mind. But there’s no giving up or giving in. There is no choice but to keep fighting. Keep living, loving, looking.

I took a step back and called my brother. He didn’t have much to say, but he’s living right and I love him.

Dear (Friend),

We’re getting old and I miss you.
Sometimes I miss the days where we were curled up in the fetal position, orbiting each other and everyone else like wounded satellites. Too broken to fix anything, too beat to care.
We’d roll around on dirty floors, in dirty jam rooms. Nap on thread bare couches with tears resting in our eyes. We’d walk the cold streets of a city I can’t name in our shredded shoes, our big hearts resting in our throats and trying to strangle us. We’d search, aimlessly trying to figure out how to breath again. How to breath deeply and with meaning.
How to breath through the cigarette smoke and smell of dirty laundry. The dumpstered jokes and food bank treats rotting next to the compost bin. How to breath through the oppressive smell of our sweaty dreams shouted out like threats all over this city. Threats used to cover up the fact that we’re cowards as we roll another smoke, roll another bitter joke over our lips, roll another piece of paper into a ball. Another piece of paper containing a failed letter to another failed friend. Again and again, because practice makes perfect. Ball your fists, balls of paper. One better than the other to throw around, one better than the other to fail at I suppose…

Dear (Friend),
We’re getting old and I miss you.
Sometimes I miss the nights were we spread our arms wide and yelled out at the dark. Our thoughts falling all around us into ideas and dreams as we believed in anything we could wrap our minds around. Our hearts exploding with hopes and desires and caring.
Sometimes I miss the idea that things could be that way again, before you were broken, before you broke trust with me…

Dear (Friend),
We’re getting old and I miss you.
Nothing will ever be the same again, and for that I am grateful.

Dear (Friend),
We’re getting old and I miss you.
Please stay strong. (I’m trying to forgive you)

Emo night, no cover.

Sometimes I get hit by a wave of sadness so hard and fast that it feels like a sucker punch to the gut. Taking the wind right out of me and leaving me disoriented and in pain.

There’s so many people I’ve loved over the years, and now I’m sitting here in my room at 2:44 on a Friday morning wondering how so many friendships just faded or went on hiatus.
How so many people can fail each other. How much someone (me) can miss because shit went sour and then went even worse.
I’ve made mention to leaving, to change, to running away.
I was so fucking broken when I left that I didn’t know what else to do. I spent three years drunk as fuck and shit got bad. Sometimes it was better but worse than before. Other times it was just worse.

I came out of those years yet again wondering what the fuck happened. Again destroyed even further with hurt, pain, lies, abuse.
I came out of those years with a fucking drinking problem and a concussion.
Some more scars and chips to put of the list of shit I’ll never, ever fucking let happen again.

What ever friendships I had saved from before those years really struggled to survive them. I lost more friends because I was broken and becoming more broken. I was hurt and becoming more hurt. I was losing myself and for all I fucking cared I was about to drowned in the bottom of a 20 pack of Caribou green and set my self on fire with a pack of Canadian Classics. Preferably every night. Or die trying. Hopefully.

And now I’m sober. I’m trying to give up smoking.

I’m starting to see folks around that I haven’t seen in years. It looks like a lot of people are moving out this way. People I used to be closer to and miss dearly. I’m terrified to open back up again, I’m not sure if anything has actually changed. Some of them still hold parts of me. Some of them I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive. Most of them probably don’t give a fuck about me anyway.

I miss so many people so fucking much, but maybe it’s better off like this?
Maybe some of the bridges need to stay burnt.

Tonight is a night of sadness and loneliness.
Of remembering the ones that are lost to me, but not gone.
Tonight is for missing you and wishing I could erase the hurt.
Wishing you would come and hold my hand like you used to.

Tonight is for mourning parts of myself that are better dead.
For believing in my ability to find strength even in my darkest times.
Tonight is for honouring the feelings I have and respecting that I can miss people who hurt me deeply in the past.
It doesn’t make me a contradiction to have feelings, It makes me human.

Say what you mean, don’t be mean with what you say.

It’s hard to not take something personally when it’s something personal.
You said you won’t talk about it because no one wants to listen, but if that were the truth, then why did I ask to hear you?
So you lump me in with all the people who were here before me, because you’re afraid to be hurt by opening up and saying your truths out loud. Afraid to answer questions asked in honesty. Afraid to be hurt.
So you hold it inside yourself instead and shut me out with cryptic statements and hard to understand truths.
It hurts me too, you know?

And I’d say sorry for being true, for being honest, for trying so fucking hard to be a good person, a good friend.
I want to say sorry, but that’s a reaction I’m trying to unlearn. I did nothing wrong. I’ve done nothing wrong.
I don’t want to hurt.

Honesty in caring, holding myself open to accept and hear you, communication in ernest.
These aren’t things to be sorry for.
Why should I be sorry?
If I were to take back my attempt to be a good person, you might spare me the hurtful words and emotional push-back? But then I’d be living another lie, because there wouldn’t be honesty in between actions.

Fuck that, fucking fuck living a lie. I’ve lived there before and it’s an ugly and horrible hell. I’m still trying to navigate parts of myself out of it’s darkness. I can’t and won’t avoid or circumnavigate parts of myself to please you or anyone else. I can’t let my feelings and truths be over shadowed by another persons, not when there’s enough space for everyones truth to come out. Not when I’d be risking the safety of the small place inside myself where I’ve finally found refuge. Not when every act of letting someone in risks that safety. Honour what I’ve offered you, don’t take it for granted.

Don’t try to hold me hostage with my feelings, I’ll cut that shit lose so fast and slip out into the night without a sound.
I am wild. I am fierce.

Sometimes I’m afraid to keep trying because I’m not sure how much strength I have left to keep picking myself back up.

I am strong, but I feel defeated today.
I feel so fucking frustrated.
I feel sad.

 

(*I want to kick something, but not hard. More like a tap. I need a hug.)

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.

Ever.

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?

WatlerFest, 2016


Evan’s dad gets annoyed, in the least annoyed way, that no one wants food yet. It’s 8am and everyone is just waking up. I’ve been up since 6, ate my bananas, went for a hike in the dark.

“These people don’t eat much, do they?” He mumbles to himself while making a second pan of bacon to go with the yoghurt and fruit he’s already prepared. It all sits on the table, untouched, while the rest of his family, and the two weird kids his son brought, drink their morning coffee or tea.

Later in the afternoon Cam, Evan and I end up at the corner store. Cam is buying a bar of local made soap.

I say to myself “Now that Eric is dead, I don’t have anymore soap”

“What an asshole” Evan replies.

By late afternoon Cam is surfing. Evan and I are walking the beach and scaling a rockface ocean cliff to a view point. I watched Evan almost get swept out to sea by a tidal wave. Making risky choices so he could climb a rock formation.

He says the fear is part of what made it worth it. I think to myself that I’d be happier knowing that’s how he died as aposed to being another statistic to the fentanyl epidemic. A sad terror that’s hit the west coast and ripped through the hearts and homes of so many people.

A lot of people are dying right now.

Evan threw fire crackles at Cam (not crackers) while he was trying to change out of his wetsuit.

We talked of setting up a hot chocolate stand and selling it for $4 a cup to undercut the foreign traveller trying to raise money for a ticket to Maui who was parked next to us.

We left an anarchy symbol behind in the parking lot. It was drawn in siracha sauce.

We left unlit firecrackles for people to find, tucked away in a coffee shop.

I’m so tired and so physically exhausted from so many things and from working for 16 (? I don’t know) days straight that I don’t know how to interact. I’m happy to be with friends. Im afraid of dying boring. I’m not sure how to find new soap, it feels wrong to not have Eric’s.

There’s a lot more happening inside of me, but I don’t know the words. I’m afraid I’m refusing to feel things. I haven’t been talking so much lately, I’m in an introverted head space. Maybe I just don’t know who to share with.  Maybe I just don’t need to. Or maybe I just worked too much for my little body and big mind. Maybe I just need to sleep it off.

I won’t die boring, Keith says that’s impossible for someone like me.