Archive | Mogo RSS feed for this section

Letters from the Dead

30 Jan

I’m cleaning out the “laundry room”, an awkwardly named room full of dirty clothes, cat litter, summer stuff for kids and all the crap I don’t know where else to put. In the middle of empty boxes, dryer fluff and dried herbs, there’s a box.


Mostly, the letters between Mogo and I, the written documentation of the person, long ago, I fell in love with. The good person who listened and cared, who was funny and ballsy and pretty damn awesome.

Fuck me it hurt to read those, to hear that voice again, that voice I haven’t heard in so long, lost behind who we became, grew into. I loved him.

I stopped reading after one. It wasn’t worth the hurt. But I couldn’t quite bring myself to dump them into the garbage. Not today. Maybe never. In those envelopes are my daughter’s parents, before everything else, when a faint lust flowered in ink, an understanding, a camaraderie.  He was so beautiful to me then. I remember that, how excited I would become when a letter would arrive, how I would read each letter over and over, how good it felt to have one certain person in my world, someone who would always tell me hey, it IS ok.

It’s not ok.

I tucked them back into the old box, slogans from my misspent youth scrawled across it, when a letter fell out.


Red hair, huge grin, lively porcelain skin. Perfectly wonderful and yet blandly un-entertaining. She would write me the odd letter when I moved from her town to “the big city”, and I never wrote back, having nothing to say to someone I rarely spoke with, someone I was only tenuously connected to via her boyfriend who liked to play Asshole and sit quietly staring at everyone. Normal in every way, destined to teach, become a mother perhaps, live a full life and die. I never wrote her back that I remember, or maybe once I did. I was pretty high most of the time then, and she didn’t fit in to where I sat, her beauty and the stunning normality of her life a brick wall that breathed heavily on me as it sat, hostile between us.

I didn’t think of her for years. Until Facebook, and I thought, wow, I never wrote her back. I felt bad, a hollow ache I felt about most things from that time, a manic period like no other in my life, when I scorned all that which didn’t burn like magnesium in front of my very eyes. Many a common friendship, lost then, because I couldn’t handle the mundane.

But when I looked for her, when I typed in her name and saw in my mind her lovely face, the hair I envied, I found the one thing I didn’t want to, didn’t dream of seeing for anyone my age, just starting on their life, when you’re honest.

There was an accident one night, on the cold highway linking much of Ontario to the rest of Canada, a twisting road I’ve driven, terrified. A sudden, horrid accident, taking her sister and brother as well. I found she had been a student near me, maybe even at the same time, and I never knew, same school, same town. She grew into a profession she loved.

She had died, and I had never bothered to say hello, or goodbye. She was gone, and I had never really known her.


Mortality has always been part of me, more so than most people I meet. I have a keen, if not outsized sense of how close we are, how easily we can fall from this world and into whatever waits. I know we are mortal beings, more likely to float away into dust than meet a maker or live forever in a heaven made of gumdrops and cream cheese. But there is something about a 27 year old woman, just beginning her life, her career, maybe waiting until it’s right to meet her children, dying in a car crash coming home from a movie, that just isn’t right, or fair.

Or easy to swallow. I expected to be well into my thirties before my friends started to die, but then also thought how lucky I am that none of my friends HAD died. Some had been sick, and recovered. Some lost, then found. But none gone, torn from life like this. A page ripped out that I would never be able to read.

I don’t much like regret. I feel it’s wasted. But I regret this-that I never took the time to be a better friend, to be a good person. And that the words she wrote, the thoughts she gave, I never returned.

I thought there’d be more time.

Yes, it was me.

6 Aug

In my head I am:

foolish:crazy:sad, heartbreakingly sad: devoted: angry: broken: wrong: deceitful: mean-spirited: shut-off: lonely: dire: lost, whirlygig lost: confused: pained: accosted: pried open.

Mostly, I feel alone.

All of you are here for me, I know that. But I believe I’ve done gone done something terribly horribly wrong, and I’ve lost my marriage forever. It feels broken. I’m told it can’t be fixed.

And yes Virginia, it’s my fault. For once I will admit that loudly, with no sarcasm, and no fences. I fucked myself.

I have been so proud to have had a marriage that worked, to come home to the faces of my family. But I’ve never been able to say it, not enough. I’ve never been able to appreciate the love and support I have received these many years from my husband. I’ve been able and eager to point out shortcomings. But so inept at saying “Thank you-you’ve been here for me and I love you for it.”

Does it matter now if I say it? I don’t know. I do know that I woke up yesterday knowing I was wrong. That I had somewhere, made massive mistakes, and that I wanted to fix things. In my madness, I was unable to see the goodness in front of me. And I have hurt him so very much, and I have scarred him and now I fear he’s closed off to me forever. And I do love him-I love him so much that I cry every time I utter or think the words, and think what the rest of my life could be without him. He has been my guide, my rock and my protector. And now I think I’ve lost him and I can’t bear the thought.

I am not a good person. I have taken my husband for granted, I have heaped derision upon him, I have blamed him. I have said things I did not mean to try and get at him. I have been a fucking horrible, rotten wife and now it’s time to pay the toll it seems.

I don’t know what will happen, but when I see the closed down look in his beautiful brown eyes, I truly want to die. No one is worth dying for, but I just can’t imagine living without him.

I am trying to be strong. I am trying to be positive, keep my head up. But I ache with fear. I’ve never loved anyone like I love him.

I want to change. I want to be a better person, a happier person, a person who doesn’t leap to the insult first. I know I’ve become callous and foul over the last year. I’ve been wanting to change that about me anyway. I want to be better. I want to treat him better, as he deserves.


15 Jun

I don’t say it often enough to Mogo, I don’t mention it between work and dinner and bedtime and a little time for ourselves.

Mogo, you are a fantastic father.

Many times as parents we think we need to “do” things to be good parents, that we must be teachers, musicians, artists, chefs, scientists. That every moment can be taught and made valuable. I’m one of those parents, finding a place to insert a little knowledge no matter what.

Some parents are able to ride childhood,  allow it to blossom and bloom through benevolent neglect and a pointed finger directed outside. Some parents will roll on the floor and let their children bounce on them like Tigger’s, until, inevitably, they get hurt while giggling.

Mogo is one of these parents.

He can take them to the park and let them play for an hour when I wouldn’t even make it 15 minutes. He can get down on the floor and play, setting up intricate train arrangements for the resident conductor. He brings home comics for his daughters, explaining the back stories. He makes them hamburgers whenever they ask.

I have sometimes high expectations for all of us, too high. And I forget to remind him how much his daughters eyes glow for him, and how empty this house would be if he was ever gone from it. I forget to remind him how much I love the father in him, how pure and simple this life we lead is, and how I adore it despite myself.

Happy Father’s Day Mogo.

(P.S-Mogo is also the reason that Rosalyn has, for the most part, mastered the potty this week. If that isn’t kick ass fatherhood, nothing is.)


1 Jun

I don’t believe in luck. I believe in hard work, perseverance, dedication, harmony. Somedays, I don’t believe that happiness is a simple thing-an equation of love and contentment, divided by the lives we live.

Somedays, I don’t care. I just look ahead, and see my life, and smile.



Days like these….everything just makes sense.

The Tin and The Diamonds

18 Apr

So today is our 10th wedding anniversary.

No, I’m not really old. I married young.

10 years ago today, right about now we would have been, officially, with only one single God reference, man and wife.

I kept my name.

All things considered, we feel pretty superior about our marriage sometimes. Which isn’t to say that we don’t have our problems-like any couple, we do. But we’re proud that despite our problems, we have a strong and healthy marriage.

Sometimes we look around and wonder if people don’t split up because it’s easier. Lord knows some of what we’ve had to handle has been anything but easy. But we made a commitment to each other 10 years ago, one which many of the adults in our lives didn’t believe.

I love knowing they were wrong.

So what works?

1. He respects me. I respect him. We may not always agree, we may have different opinions, but we respect each other enough to leave well enough alone.

2. We give each other space. This one might freak him out a little more than me-I’m not a jealous person, I don’t need attention every second of the day, and I firmly believe people need their own little “world”, things to call their own. He’s come to accept, and respect, my need for a little space, which makes it easier for me to relent. Giving space is a HUGE one for me. I need my alone corner.

3. We talk. Sometimes our communication is poor-and at that point, we can tell, because things just get crappy. This has been huge with me being bipolar-it can be very easy for me to make something up and run with it. He brings me back to earth, and makes sure we talk, even if we’re then up until 2am

4. Our sex life is fantastic. Sure, we’re tired lately, and with a third person in the house, it gets weird, but when the bow-chicka-wowwow thoughts start, we’re all good. We’re at that point where we’re totally comfortable with each other. Admittedly, this took longer for me than him, but it’s so freeing! I can’t imagine losing this absolute safety in this regard. Newness has nothing on comfort. Of course, I feel strongly that great sex goes back to great communication.

5. We want the same things. Sure, some desires are divergent-I don’t get his thing for comic books, he has trouble understanding my wish to meet other bloggers, but in terms of the big things in life, we want the same simple things-a nice house to live in, a comfortable cash flow, happy children, a happy existence. Nothing fancy-just living a happy life full of warmth and ease. I could think of worse things.

6. Most importantly, we love each other. Are still in love with each other. Even after 10 years, my heart still leaps a bit when I think of him, my skin still tingles with certain thoughts. He makes me laugh, we make each other laugh. He has loved me enough to stand by me through wants for suicide, through a hospital stay, through years of undiagnosed hell. He has truly loved me enough to be strong for me when I couldn’t be. He has held me through tears, through rage, through sadness and confusion. No matter what, he has been there for me, because he loves me.

I don’t think you can ask for more than that in a partner.

I believe we’ve been successful in our marriage because we were truly friends before lovers. From the moment we met we’ve been talking-a connection made, a synergy. A bond reflected in the mobius strips on our wrists. An infinite love, even if Mogo isn’t able to put the words to it. I suppose I more than make up for it.

10 years with the same person. And I couldn’t be happier.

10 years now, bonded and branded.

18 Apr



my world in brown, in dewy heady

earth we’ve buried our bodies in, the flesh of time.


In visions your hands are there, strong dusky mittens of

memory, the cold splash of a peach on a Sunday morning, remnants

of strawberries and cream, slithering up your palms as my belly,

full with child, our child, you brushed.


Arms would be cradles.

Eyes would be cradles.

Soft words at 4am buffers

bumpers, shields.


Love would be meaningless if given only as gestures.


Entwined in my heart you are-tangled like

vines in the backyard, ripe with

raspberries, or

exploding with lupins, bruised in pale blues and purples.

Your fingers dance through mine. Laughter like the rising sparrows

from your lungs to mine

echoes through these years.


The tin man is ours, he with no heart.

Empty we were, bereft and yet, quietly unaware.

We fill him now, we fill rooms, we fill forests and cities.

We cradle his heart in ours.


Happy Anniversary baby. I love you so very much.

“does bipolar go away?”

23 Feb

No. No, it doesn’t.

I don’t think that there ever was a time I didn’t have this disease in my brain. I think it was minimized, something I could control to some degree, something I could compensate for. But my extreme sensitivity as a child? My varying moods, my shyness-all things that could be normal in a child, but which seem, in hindsight, to be indicators, potentials.

Being molested by a neighbour, watching my mother slowly die over a number of years, only letting go when told there was no point anymore, trying to hold on to the splinters we called family-I can’t help but think these things, and puberty, forced the hand and took me from merely strange, to a little crazy.

I had a nasty habit of hitting things when angry. Things like thick wooden fences and concrete walls. I’d turn on friends in an instant, for no reason even I could discern. I’d shut myself off, blocking the world out for days.

I found lovely delicious drugs which liked me back.

I think most of my adolescence was spent in denial. Denying anything was wrong to any of the shrinks who saw me-pushing away anyone who might have wanted to help me.

What’s surprising is that Mogo was willing to be with the mess I was, and staying through all the late night accusations and needy MEMEME that involves so much of bipolar for me. Nothing was ever enough. I needed to be shown, I needed his love to be proved. As if staying with someone who’d sit in a bathtub running cold water when she was freaked out wasn’t proof enough.

Babies came. PPD came. My mind left.

There’s an awful sense of doom when you’re diagnosed and you realize that this is it. After years of not knowing what it was, years of Mogo saying “I think you might be manic-depressive” and me snapping “Fuck off-I’m not crazy”, years of pretending everything was ok and maintaining a life that was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain, you suddenly think it will be ok. You have a reason.

But then you realize that that reason is a life sentence. You will never escape your disease. It IS you. It’s part of you, it’s formed you and in some ways, you’re at it’s mercy. You’ll take drugs for the rest of your life, and you’ll hope like hell they don’t stop working. You’re thankful that there are drugs that make you mostly normal.

Bipolar doesn’t go away. There’s no magic switch to turn on and off. There’s no secret formula to fix your brain. It just is. Cancer you can cure. You can get a new heart. Your brain? All you can do is drink a magic potion, and hope it works.

Do I wish there was a magic switch? Hells yes. I worry daily that the drugs won’t work-now that I’m on Lithium, and it works, and I can see the chaos I spawned and what the ultimate ending I was headed for I worry. Because my BPD, untreated, is a death sentence. If I was still untreated, it’s more than likely I would be dead by now. I could feel it building. It’s why the periodic feelings of “hey, swallow those pills/cut yourself” scare me so completely. Because they are still there, and I fear them. I fear that voice, and I fear, more than many things, returning to that state of living.

You don’t realize how bad those voices, those thoughts are, until they’re not there. Every day, for years, I thought of dying. Of taking my own life. Those thoughts became friends-bad friends, but friends nonetheless. They were always there.

Now, living without them is such clear bliss that I would have trouble going back to living with them in my head everyday.

I wish it would go away. I wish I didn’t have to take 4 pink pills every night. I wish I didn’t have to worry about my children, how I’m affecting them, if they’ve inherited it. I wish I didn’t have to worry about my husband, who has spent far too many days wondering where his wife went, and if she was going to survive. I wish I could say I’ll never be hospitalized ever again.

I wish, I wish….but at the end of the day, it’s not going away. So we pick ourselves up, and soldier on, hoping we stay strong, yet preparing daily for the worst.

“A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous.”

14 Feb

I never ever imagined I’d grow up and fall in love.

Just like the white picket 2.5 kids white dress dog story didn’t fit into my worldview, neither did falling in love. Rather, I couldn’t imagine someone would fall in love with me, or even fall in lust. I trusted no one, and kept myself closed off.

We met first when I was 15 I guess, wrote letters, visited when we could. Slowly, with time, something grew.

I felt it the first time we met really, me scatterbrained and sitting at the GO stop, waiting, my giant bag that always smelled inexplicably of salami behind me. He swung into a parking lot, opened the car door, and I knew. I just knew.

He who had been part of me forever, maybe before, was standing there saying hello. But not in a sudden shock to the system, mindfuck kind of way. In a quiet, “I know you” way.

My body, my mind, my heart recognized him, and was quietly comfortable with him in that first moment. Every inch of my body yearned to reach out for his-it was like it already knew how.

But of course, I was only 15 or 16 and he had a girlfriend. It was almost painful to watch, but I never imagined we’d be anything more than friends. We lived apart. I pushed those thoughts to the back of my mind.

a while later, in Guelph, in this horrible dirty house he lived in with an old man who loved Abba and hacked his lungs out every 5 minutes, a klepto and a schizophrenic who stared at my tits, you could feel it rising. A tension, an urge, a line we wouldn’t cross. Again-time and roads and life got in the way. I felt I couldn’t, I should make that move, reach out and finally touch him, really touch him as I’d been wanting to do for so long. I ached for him in some ways, my body aware that he knew me already-that we were merely waiting for each other.

Finally, one March, something happened. Events conspired and brought us together-a week spent sleeping little, but finally acknowledging something we both knew was there. His skin was like butter, sweet and soft and I will remember forever the feel of my lips on his that first time. That first kiss…was everything, that and his lips upon my neck.

I had fallen deeply, and honestly in love with him.

It took him a little longer to realize this, but it’s ok. He’s male.

This year marks 10 years of marriage, 11 years of being together. 11 years with the same person. 11 years with someone I love more today than I did then.

I love him more because of who he’s helped me to be. He has stood fast against the face of my illness. He has held my daughters late nights as babies, as I slept away my terrors. He’s wiped my tears and helped me to the bathroom when weak. He makes me laugh, hard from the belly like Kenny vs Spenny, even when I don’t want to laugh.

He’s walked a path lately that was incredibly hard for him, but he did it. And I am so very proud of him. He spends his days with our daughters, showing them what a man should be, watching them grow up and become children, later, women.

He thinks of me when I’m not around. He tells me that, and I feel warm and full.

He makes me happy, even if I sometimes forget to tell him.

I feel lucky to have found the person I believe “fits” me, completes me. Even the thought of him not being there scares me more than anything else in this world. I see us growing old together, holding our grandchildren together and sitting on our porch, bitching about kids today.

I look forward to every second.

Baby, I love you.

Happy Valentines Day.


“do bipolar people have feelings”

5 Feb

Jebbus…..what the hell do you think?

I know my reaction is knee jerk “do you think us monsters?”, and that isn’t the point.

I know that many people, including my long suffering husband, have been hurt by this disease, this ragged excuse for a mentality. When we rage-we rage hard. Mogo has been on the receiving end of many s screaming fit-angers so vivid that it’s a good thing the “Will and Word” doesn’t exist. My body would shudder, and quake, and it took all of my control to not strike out at him. Our walls still hold the reminders of this violence.

We have feelings. The problem is, we have too many. While you feel an aching sadness at the news that someone stomped their baby to death, I feel an all consuming anger and sadness. It infiltrates my brain, and my heart, until that child might as well have been my child, and I can feel their tiny heart beat out it’s last pulse. When you feel a quiet happiness for someone who just had their child, I become obsessive, needing to do everything, be there, give oddles of advice, and feel maybe like a mother might.

While bipolar, there are no half measures. Happy is happy, sad is sad. There are feelings-immense feelings that overwhelm.

But to you, the outsider, it may seem like there are no feelings inside us as we blithely ignore your wants, your needs. Ours are paramount. We may recognize that you have feelings and needs, but they will never trump ours. We are important. You live around us.

Isn’t that horrible?

It’s difficult to have an interdependant relationship with someone who is bipolar, because that inter part? We have trouble with that. On a manic day, our ego will exceed you. On a down day, our misery will be all that matters. You….well, you won’t.

Now that I’m medicated, I can see what I was doing, how I was hurting people around me. I see people finally coming back out of the woodwork to talk to me, after years of avoiding me, aware of my sudden shifts and callous nature. Suddenly, I see all my wrongs, and I’m pentient, and unaware of how to fix it.

Feelings are there. We aren’t psychopaths. We just don’t know how to direct it to you, or how to say the words we mean. We just don’t live on the same plane sometimes.

To Rosalyn on a Thursday

10 Jan

You wrap your tiny, perfect little arms around my neck, like pincher’s, clinging softly, not desperate, but like a craving, scrambling higher and higher up my body, until your warm head fits snugly in the crook of my neck.

You hair is soft, freshly washed, your body retaining a little, just a little, of that baby softness. It’s outgrowing this weakness, but still, around the back, I can find it, and I draw lazy circles as we sit, you recent from the bath, still dripping in some places, and I perched in that spot you dropped the water, nose to your brow, drinking you in.

I want to freeze you intact in this place; your limbs, stretching from baby to child, your curious, 70% cocoa eyes, that mouth which bubbles and brims with thoughts, ideas, loud words, wants, quests. I want to trap your giggles in a margarine bucket, opening slightly at the edges when I’m 40, and you’re being, well, difficult, so I can remember today, so I can remember you smooth arm and chubby fingers stretching around my neck, so I can remember the joy which shoots like beams from your eyeballs as we tickle you.

“I want it! I want it!” you scream in any direction, any room in which your sister has the discourtesy to touch something. She capitulates in most cases, the path of least resistance, or at worst, the path that leaves ones eardrums intact.

You are the baby. I stare at you, straining to remember this age with Vivian, this almost 3 time, and I can’t. She was not you-she was so completely and utterly different. Mature somehow, older. You’ve been left to ripen longer, left to explore the outer reaches of toddlerhood without our impatience for what’s next to disturb you.

I watch you cling to your father as you do me, the same, but different. As girls are wont to cling to their daddies, you dangle yourself across his chest, nuzzling his neck, your eyes closed. Sweet, peaceful contentment, in the warmth of a father’s arms.

Stop growing my honey bear. I cannot stand the thought of losing the you who is here with us now.


Question on asshatery.

18 Dec

Is it more classist to

-clear the sidewalks around the local low income housing days (i.e. a week) before the rest of the neighbourhood (i.e. the owned homes)

-point out the inherent disconnect on having on specific section cleared days before the rest of the neighbourhood strictly based on their economic base and potential “mobility” issues.

Mogo managed to kick up a dust storm on a local message board complaining about the fact that the low income “project” up the road from us has it’s sidewalks cleaned (and I mean cleaned) at least a week before the rest of the area. The add insult to injury, they’ll  clear 2 blocks of a 10 block street, only clearing the area in front of the low rental.

Is it classist to be irritated that I, a mortgage paying, property tax suffering person, has to wait longer to use the sidewalks than those who aren’t?

I don’t think they should wait longer-I just don’t understand doing only their little area, and leaving the rest of us to walk on the road.

Are we being asshats?

The person we are.

13 Nov

in the backround

a tip trat tap in the empty bathroom


against the wood we haven’t managed to take down yet.

your hands shiver against the door

and you return, crumbling your way up

the stairs, around the corner

falling into our bed.

Your breath bangs heavy you

aren’t the young boy I knew

those 10 or so years ago

in your dingy longjohns and

tshirts, your gauntness

your greatness in my sheltered eyes.

The weight shifts, a hand reaches to mine

the pressure, the pressure of years

of days and weeks and minutes

the time we’ve put together

the person we are.

“For it was not into my ear you whispered, but into my heart. It was not my lips you kissed, but my soul.”

29 Oct

Somedays, I’ll be sitting there at work, and I’ll think of him. I’ll think of my husband and his strong soft hands, his kind laughing brown eyes, his awesome rear end and I’ll smile. I’ll grin, and I’ll feel that quiver all over again-the quiver I felt years ago, so many years past, when we were just young and I was a wild mess of adolescent rage and he was just alone in a small town making music. That quiver which pierced my heart when I was just a girl.

I didn’t intend on falling in love-not ever. I had distanced myself from those needs, even so young I was walled off and had my defenses set to stun, phasers! I told myself that life alone would be ok. I’d have cats and vacations, lots of breakable things and curry. The walls of my home would be multi-colored and jewelled.

I wrote him a letter after reading his in a magazine, purchased on a long drive north to a town on Lake Superior, a grief stricken move, a father, a daughter, me high on codeine after having my tonsils out 2 days prior. I read his letter and something quivered and twinged and I wanted to write him.

And yet…that letter became lost, lost in my room, a cavernous void, a mess that could suck dry a household. I didn’t think of it again until months later, I found it behind a dresser. I sat down on my floor and stared at it. I opened it up to read it, to see if it still represented me. I sealed it up again, and mailed it that day.

Months later, letters later, I called him. I’d be travelling near him-did he want to meet?

And we did. I got off the Go bus and waited near some crappy little store, leaning on the phone booth when he pulled up in his parent’s Olds. I met his eyes, and I felt like he was an old friend I hadn’t seen in years back for a visit. A moment of spark. A second of history I couldn’t account for. But I knew him. Somehow, I knew him, my body knew him.

A vague craving for him sprung up inside me which I quickly dampened. I had renounced all these things and besides-years of being told I was unattractive had taught me a lesson about that. I packed away my own desire, and only felt it pine once as he held his girlfriend in a pool and they laughed and laughed.

Time passed, I moved, moved again. We’d meet now and then, and I’d still feel it. I’d feel the desire I had for him, the unexplainable need to be with him. We could talk for hours, never feeling uncomfortable or strange. It really was like we’d known each other forever. I visited him in a scummy rooming-house in Guelph, slept on the floor near his bed, wishing he’d lay with me. Feeling him near me, and yet knowing it just wasn’t right. Not then.

My last year of high school, I visited on break in March. We stayed up night after night, talking, smoking weed-I got to the point where I was completely mad from lack of sleep. And one night we kissed. One night, his lips trailed fire up my neck and I felt the warm embrace of the one thing I never thought I’d find-love. It filled me inside, it boiled over into everything I touched as I waited for the year to play out, and for my life with him to begin.

And it did, as all things do. And ten years later, I am still madly in love with him, he who is now my husband, he who I am tied to with many bonds. When I let him, he heals me. My heart aches for him, and he soothes it. His laugh is gentle, and he cannot bear to see me suffer.

Some-days I sit around and think of him and laugh. I just cannot believe that I deserve such a blessing.

“Autumn is the mellower season, and what we lose in flowers we more than gain in fruits. “

18 Oct

The last few lovely days of 2007 are upon us, and we bask in it’s sunshine, the soft warmth of fall, the automatic scent memory of wood stoves and crushed leaves in our noses. The trees shine yellow, orange, purple-my candy dreams come to life around me.

Conjure up if you will, a target smile of comfort, blissed out eyes, closed off into their own little world. This is where I am most at ease, most alive. During the transition between life and death, summer and winter, I find my place. A child born of that division, forced to acknowledge it forever.

But I don’t mind. Fall lingers in my pockets like an old favorite of a book, nothing too chewy, nor too easy, but just right-just enough to make you ponder and think, make you wonder. Just enough to help you fall off to sleep each night.

If a season can be home, then autumn is mine, with all it’s nooks and crannies.


We trudge off to the park, as we do most nights, dragging Poppi along, trailing sticks and cigarette smoke.

“I don’t trust you on the road Poppi.” Vivian states as he pushes Rosalyn down the street to the next sidewalk ramp. “Get off the road.”

Bemusement fills his face. “Little Dictator” he mumbles as he plods along. I grin silently.


We watch Rosalyn toddle along from slide to slide, veering between her favorite red one, the fast one, and the shorter yellow one. She hops when she runs, almost like a rabbit, but cuter, that irrepressible toddler spirit humming along.

“Mom would have loved her.” I blurt out. “She’s just so adorable and girly…”

“yeah.” My father says. “Think of the pink frilly dresses she would have bought. Oh! The pink!”

And it’s only the truth. Love might be equally shared, but everyone has a secret favorite, a child whose heart matches theirs just that little bit more, the child who just gets it, the child who fits just right into the crook of your eye. Rosalyn would have been that child for my mother. The daughter who wanted skirts. Who wanted little girl things. The cute little girl, loving and warm.

A little part of me is jealous, even of the relationship they would have but couldn’t. My mother would have understood this child in a way that I can’t, ways I might never. I envy that.

My father and I sit quietly for a few moments, lost in thought, watching Rosalyn go up, down, up slides. Perhaps my mother watches as well, putting down her sewing to hover around Rosalyn’s head, making sure she doesn’t fall too hard or too far.

I like that idea.

Fall Morning, thinking of my love

18 Oct

I’d like to write about the sunglaring through the sky, burning it’s way through the trees and

the corners of the buildings and the bodies, oh lo the bodies.

I’d like to dance say

once or twice around the world and into the arms

of the one person I’ve loved forever it seems

yesterday today and quite possibly even

tomorrow. I’d do a jig

special for them, made quiet.

I’d like to write for everyone the certain glance I give the

broken windows I see, the power lines that

garble the sky, the sound of all the creatures

hoarding in my backyard

all the moments to behold before

we tear it down

we tear

we tear

and I’ll sacrifice myself for it

for you on

altars made plain by today.

I’d like to write and explain this

outwards, turned inside out and made

possible, potential. I’d like to

thank you for something

something external and voiceless

nameless? no, it’s named

I just can’t shake it off my hands.

Breathe in now. Breathe in the day

the lives you eat the lives you live the

small tiny moments where the sky becomes the ground

falling around your head and you feel

like there’s no bottom to catch

the fish that has taken your heart.

Breathe in the daily measures

the bread the water the

love the joy the love!

Breathe. I’d like to write you something.

Let’s give Mogo props…

8 Aug

for being the sweetest and sending me orchids, my favorite flower, for no good reason other than to cheer me up.



I love them baby. Thank you. You totally just cheered me up.

Bad Day

10 Jul

Today is a bad day.

Sometimes I feel like I’ll never get out of here-like I’ll be crazy forever and Mogo will be lost to me, the girls lost to me. I feel like I’ll never find a quiet place of my own ever again, that I’ll never find me again in all of this shit and dirt and mess.

Mogo brought the girls to see me, and I wish I had felt better about the visit. But I was already cycled into depressed and vulnerable, and for some reason, their visit only made it worse. I feel horribly guilty for leaving them in the lurch, for not getting better quicker, for doing this to them. It’s not fair. I’m doing what I can. But it doesn’t feel like I am. I feel like people think I’m on vacation, relaxing in my room.

I’m lonely. I’m desperately alone, and sad in there. I’m tired of the noise-the god-dammed racket! The shitty ass food. The people who won’t be quiet, who smell my hair, or just plain weird ME out (that is quite the accomplishment). I’m tired of being crazy, and feeling helpless to fix it.

Mostly, I’m terrified at what we’ll do if I have to be in here much longer. This needs to get fixed soon, or at least fixed enough so I can pretend to be better. The weight of real life and expectation sits heavy on my shoulders, and I can’t ignore it much longer.

So much for summer vacation huh? Not that it’s very summery out-it’s fucking rainy and grey and miserable. AGAIN.

Serenity Now

5 Jul


First, I’m more than overwhelmed at all of your support with this. As someone who doesn’t feel much of a need for people IRL, it surprised me to log on briefly last night at the hospital and see so much love and support.

Thank you. When I have more time, I’ll write a real post. Right now, I’m on a 2 hour pass to get some clothing and pit stick(not to mention shower and brush my teeth. Not a fan of communal bathrooms)

I’m….better. Not perfect, not quite well. But ages away from where I was on Tuesday. I’m still having my moments-but most of those are triggered by the other people in the ward (I mean really, is it necessary to slather yourself in the SMELLIEST creme you can find?) or by the inefficiencies on the ward. (Cause when you’re sick, you’re gonna remember to ask when meals are brought out)

I spend most of my time in my cell like room, reading, crocheting, doing puzzles. The nurses keep trying to convince me to hang out in the common area, but really, the last thing I need right now is the irritant of strangers, especially crazy one.

It’s the total stereotype of a psych ward, right down to the guy who thinks he talks to god (and stares at my chest). Most of these people NEVER.SHUT.THE.FUCK.UP. Which drives me nuts. Nothing like a 20 minute onrunning monologue about how someone is the amateur champion of judo to make you want to poke your eardrums out.

So I’ve retained my sense of humour and general irritation with the human race at the very least.

I’m writing stuff down in my room so I can actually post about the experience when I return, whenever that is. I hate interrupting lives as I have, mine, Mogo’s, my bosses. But for once, I realize I need to do this or I really won’t survive.

So thank you-all of you, even those of you who are a HUGE pain in the ass. (You know who you are *coughJenCough*) Much appreciated.

P.S. Ativan RULES.

Canada Day-Rained OUT :(

1 Jul

We decided to go downtown to experience some good Canada day fun, but in usual Canadian fashion, it rained, as it does most Canada Day’s (and Labour Day’s) thairos.jpg

During the first rain delay, we decided to go to one of my most favorite restaurants, the local thai place. Which, with small children who aren’t used to behaving in restaurants, can be a joy. The food rocked my mouth as usual, but I was eating too fast to notice.

Rosalyn enjoyed the skewers and the fake flowers however. Vivian enjoyed seeing how far she could drive her mother. thaiviv.jpgThe waitress told me I was lucky I could take my kids there since most kids don’t like their food. Like that matters to kids who, if the decide not to, won’t eat anything.

 We ventured out again after picking vermicelli off everything, seeing how far we could get before it rained again. Turns out that isn’t very far at all! But the girls got balloon animals that Rosalyn didn’t want and Vivian made explode, Vivian beat some kids up in a bouncy castle, had some older kid yell at her for wacking them with balloons and got a puppy painted on her face.










Why do puppies always end up looking like strung out rabbits when painted on faces?vivpup.jpg


Rosalyn was happy just to maintain control of the umbrella throughout. There’s nothing like being denied cover by a 2 year old to make you humble.





So we missed all the fun stuff like Chinese dancers and music that we really wanted to see. Vivian got her first experience in an outhouse which thankfully wasn’t as smelly as I figured, but we still had to talk about the stuff IN the toilet.

Then it REALLY started to pour, so we called a cab and ran home like sissies.



16 Jun

How to you reconcile views when you hate your body, and your partner loves it?

I’m having some body issues, just like I do every summer. More specifically, regardless of any changes to my eating habits (like, oh, no more sugar pop, less junk) I seem to be bloating, if not gaining weight. I’m assuming it’s some weird bloat, since everytime I weigh myself nothing has changed.

I didn’t have the best night with all of this last night. I feel like I’m trapped within this fat fucking body, trapped within a mind that can’t control how I eat, what I eat without this total focus on food, something I’m not sure I’m willing to do. I get exercise, to the degree that I can, and I’m trying to up it again. But I can’t help but feel like it doesn’t matter, that it won’t help.

I’m about 300 pounds. That’s right. 300 POUNDS. I’m a baby elephant. After quitting smoking and eating through my last pregnancy, I gained 50 pounds. And I can’t help but feel I won’t get it off. The only time I do lose weight is when I’m so depressed I eat nothing. At this point, that seems like a good time.

But Mogo says he doesn’t see it. He says he likes my size, my shape. But how do I live comfortably with either view? How can I enjoy his contentment when I loathe myself somedays?

I don’t want to be this big. I’ve always been active but fuck, anymore walking hurts my feet so bad I limp for the rest of the day after walking for 40 minutes. I can’t breathe when I walk fast-it’s like my lungs seize up. My calves burn. I feel disgusting walking up the road trying to hide myself under a giant sweater when it’s 80 degrees outside.

I feel like I take up too much room. I feel like I become sexless, personless at this size. And I hate it.

I feel so powerless with this. I find myself eating when I’m not hungry-if I stop to analyze why I’m eating and stop, I crave and crave and desire that food until I either eat something else or break down and eat it.

Why am I always addicted to something? At this point, I’d rather be smoking since I wouldn’t look so fucking grotesque.

Shit…I dunno…I’m just tired of feeling so fucking bloated and fat all the time. It’s all I think of at this point.