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.


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.

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.

Hold fast. 

A friend called me yesterday. Most times in my life, depending on the name on my call display, a phone call only means bad. Bad news, sad feelings, heart break, harsh experiences, relapse, assault, loss, hurt, pain, struggle.
This time it was death.
“He’s dead” my friend said.
“Do you know where he is? What happened?!”
“No, I just know he’s dead, I haven’t responded to the message yet…” They said.

“Why would he do that?!?” My friend yelled.
I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t know what to say. I had a momentary lapse of time and slipped into my own infinity. I didn’t say anything.

I laughed.

I thought ‘We’re all going to die one day.’

I asked “How?”
“Probably overdosed.” They said.

“Why would he do that!? Why?!?” They yelled again.
I said I was sorry. I said I didn’t know what to say.

We hung up the phone and I walked the few blocks back to Alf House trying to remember how to feel. I could only think about how I don’t want to become my mother. Or my father for that matter.

How I need to find a new way to have emotions and process them.
I have a sick feeling inside my guts and the chaos in my brain feels iced over and unreachable.

I have many feelings living inside of me right now. My past experiences and learned behaviour is telling me it’s safer to not feel.

I hate that part of myself. I want to destroy it.
I want to live.

I want you to live.

I want my friends to be alive and thrive.

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.

By turning my insides out,

I come into full view.

And using myself as a megaphone,

All who hear me might look my way

and see

I am all I will become.


Another essay about my daily life as a neurologically deviant survivor.

I’ve been thinking a lot. (says me, every time I’m about to say something)

Where do I want to be? What do I want to do? How did I get here? Where do I go from here? What fucking planet is this?

I’ve been thinking about abuse dynamics, trauma and sexual assault, my own history, how things effect me, where I’m at in my (life long) healing process, if I’m doing enough, if I’m being too hard on myself, if I’m not being hard enough.

I’ve been thinking about work and how I just turned down a lot of hours (and money) with IATSE at a job I enjoy and can maintain. How I might actually just have to quit this job because it doesn’t seem like I can emotionally afford it. I have no idea if my ex partner will be on the calls I take. I have no control over the situation. The safe solutions I’ve tried haven’t worked. How it doesn’t seem to matter how I feel because he will always have first right to take what he wants.

How it feels like no matter the distance I put between the abusers and perpetrators that have directly effected my life, I will never be with out them. That sometimes I feel so far and distant from it all, and other times, like recently, I feel like I can never, ever be out from under the weight of it. How sometimes I just feel distant from everything, even myself. How, sometimes I really struggle with being a survivor of multiple trauma and I don’t really know where to place myself in this world. How some days, one thing can bring up all sorts of stuff that I don’t want to think about anymore. All sorts of memories and pain from a lot of different spaces of my life. How thinking about giving up this work feels more like mourning a part of myself that’s being lost to another aspect of abuse (and I thought it was over). How sometimes, I don’t even know what-the-fuck about anything.

Am I’m crying over work? Am i sleeping because I said “No” to protect myself? Am I moping because I’m hard on myself? Am I hiding because I’m so fucking sick of being angry and scared and sad? I don’t know how to talk with out crying. And I don’t need to give these tears to fucking anyone. Crying feels like a sickness, and I don’t know where it came from. Is this healing? Why does it hurt, why does it feel so lonely?

I’ve been struggling the last few days. I feel like slept all day.
Really, though, I got up, ate a healthy breakfast, hung out a bit, did some core exercise. THEN i slept all day. (not really. kinda. yeah.)
Then I checked my internet shit, had a way too healthy dinner, played a short board game, tried to go jogging (my fucking LUNGS) and went to Thieves Bay to see if I could spot some whales. Called my dad. Wrote 8 pages of journal (this post makes 9), wrote a few poems (yep), wrote an email, read countless articles, poetry and things online.
This is me trying to do healthy things when I don’t want to do anything. This is me trying to be good to myself. Fucking oatmeal, jogging, reading, self care. I resent my lack of pizza and my desire to read over watching countless hours of tv.

Now I’m staying up way too fucking late, engaging with this idea of transparency and the project of emotional/personal/political work of honesty in a public forum and I’m wondering if it even matters to post this kind of shit. If I should just give up on this tumblr idea and hide myself again. Really, I’m questioning a lot of things right now.
Maybe this will help someone. Maybe it’s helping me. Maybe everything is subjective and fuck it.

I Stand With Survivors.

An important re-post written by a friend:

I left an abusive partner after three years together. those three years included a variety of forms of abuse, including routine sexual violence.

when i first left him, i was quick to use terms i found empowering – being able to call him “abusive”, to describe what he had done as “gas lighting”, or “crazy making”, or to distinguish between the different kinds of abuse (financial abuse, verbal abuse, etc); all of that felt so heartening. i was even able to use phrases such as “sexual abuse” and “sexual coercion”.

i could not and would not use the word “rape”. it took a year of counselling with a woman trained as a trauma counsellor i saw at the local sexual assault centre. when i finally acknowledged and called what he had done to me as “rape”, when we finally discussed all the bullshit, victim-blaming, denial-based reasons i had refused to call it rape, something bust open inside of me. layers of pain, shame, rage, and sadness poured from me.

i still struggle with the word “rape”. i still hear my tongue fumble through articulation whenever i say “i was raped.” it is a process. it is a healing. it is anger and isolation and panic and doubt. it is never a term i can say, hear, read, or see without all of these internal process ricocheting throughout my body.

would you like to know how i figured out that my experience was rape?

my counsellor asked me, point blank. “why don’t you call what he did to you rape?”

my answers so appalled me, as i started to answer. i would catch my own words, would cry, backtrack, try again. i had no answer to that question, no answer that didn’t make me sick to my stomach. my answers included:

-because i didn’t “fight back hard enough”

-because i froze and “let it happen”

-because i didn’t say no often enough or loud enough

-because i gave up fighting

-because he was my boyfriend

-because i was unconscious

-because i said it was ok and then changed my mind and that wasn’t fair

-because i owed it to him

and i realized that these words were things i would never in a million years say to any other survivor ever. the opposite, in fact: if a friend uttered any of the above phrases in relation to their own experiences as a survivor, i would adamantly insist that absolutely none of the above statements in any way justified rape; that there is no justification. ever. full stop.

i heard myself say these damaging things about my own experiences and my heart truly broke.

i think it is hard to call what has happened to us “rape” because of this heartbreak – because of the deep knowledge we have that we did not deserve it, do not deserve it, and are left with all these pieces that now must be cleaned up somehow.


regardless of what your experience looked like or felt like. regardless of what vocabulary you use to describe it. regardless of whether or not your perpetrator has been held accountable.