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.)

Not Sorry

Today I woke up and realized it’s 2017. How much has changed over the years. How many parts of me have come and gone and how many things are different.

It’s been 6 years since my exodus to the western seaboard. 6 years since I tried to leave a lot of hurt and pain and suffering behind. A lot of things have happened. A lot.

I woke up this morning with the words “I’m sorry” on the tip of my tongue and tears staining my face from dreams about shit that happened so long ago and the things that have happened in the space between these last 6 years.

It’s been 6 years since I tried to leave an abuser and tried to remove a toxic community from my life, but the reminisce and reminders of abuse never really leave a person. They change us, somewhere down in our core, for ever.

I’m not sorry.

I didn’t do anything wrong.

I tried to believe in something and got sucked into more pain and hurt than I had bargained for.

I left to try and get better and it happened again, but in a different way. And that time too, it snuck up on me while I was trying to believe.

So yeah, I believe the sentiment “If you keep doing the same thing and it keeps going wrong, then you’re doing it wrong”, but not all the time. Because if I believed that as an absolute I’d have to stop trying to believe in people and things and I don’t think that’s right. I think that sounds like giving up.

Fuck giving up.

So fuck no, I’m not sorry. I’m not going to say those words. I’m going to try and stop feeling them and thinking them all the time too. I didn’t do anything wrong and the things I’m afraid of that make me feel this way aren’t even real most of the time. You just made me believe they were.
It’s 2017, you’re gone and might as well be dead. I won’t forgive you or believe you’ll ever change and I don’t have to. Knowing that is one of the most positive parts of my healing process.

Forgiving any of you is not my responsibility.

I am only responsible for myself.

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.

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.