Saturday, February 14, 2009
I’m getting restless. In the past little while I’ve picked up knitting, fabric printing and a paint brush again. I’ve read an entire book that I found lying around my office during the course of 3 shifts. But even with a new hobby each week, and a new boy in the picture I’m not satisfied. It’s like I’ve always got to be going somewhere or doing something.

Yesterday I drove to Vancouver. For a minute or two in the morning, Squamish just felt too small for me. All I could think while on the way was, ’the US border is just an hour or so that way’. I had my 18-year-old niece with me. Maybe, if I have time for it and this urge to move doesn’t up and leave me, I’ll visit Flur next month. I want to go to Seattle. It’d be a nice change, being the odd Canadian driver on American streets, rather than the odd asshole with Washington plates on our roads, forgetting their high-beams on, blocking traffic, failing to give way, and driving slow in the fast lane of our Canadian highways. Sometimes, it feels like a curse living between the boarder and one of the world’s best ski resorts and usually, that’s when I’m either blocked or blinded by an American driver making their way up to the resorts.

The sun is coming out and the snow is melting. I’m starting to wake up early again, as if all the winter sleeping is done with and life can begin again. I wonder if it’s just the seasonal transition that makes me feel so restless? Maybe I should get a second job?
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Last night while I dreamt I was shot in the head, twice. It didn’t hurt and as far as know, I didn’t die. I just had a gaping, bloody hole in the back of my head. It’s rare that I dream of being injured, so I thought that was worth mentioning.

At work yesterday, I took a call for the newsroom about a kidnapping of a 5-year-old boy from school that morning. Listening to the child’s aunt talk, I felt my own heart was ripped out of my chest and stomped on a little bit. Thinking of the amounts of ugly I get to listen to in a day, whether it be one drug dealer or another in the US trying to report another drug dealer, or a report of an 11-year-old girl’s rapist’s whereabouts being shared on the Crime Stoppers line because the caller is more interested in getting a reward than actually having the rapist caught, or just your average dick who thinks the women’s crisis line is there for his own personal entertainment and all the support workers are there just to prank call, or the Alcoholics Anonymous line where alcoholics need to find a meeting as soon as possible as they don’t have the personal strength within to stay sober one more minute without group support, I know that my issues are far smaller than so many other’s.

But, my mom’s been given 6 months to live if she doesn’t start taking care of herself. Should she clean herself up, stop drinking and start eating properly, she may have a few years. I don’t see that happening. The last time I saw her, I woke her up in the afternoon. Sleeping by her side was a new toy dog. She paid a thousand dollars for a dog the size of a rat, that’s better off at Paris Hilton’s side than my mom’s. This little thing is just a puppy. It can’t jump off the bed itself to eat or go to bathroom. The results are disturbing. The last time I saw my mom, she was sleeping on a bed that was covered in this dog’s urine and faeces and she didn’t care enough to clean it up or remove the dog. I’d been told that should my brother or father take the dog away to feed it or walk it, she accuses them of stealing it. They do it anyway, out of compassion for the little guy. And while I was there, I mentioned it was cute and all of the sudden my mother was rambling on about how I was fighting with my brother (who wasn’t at home and I hadn’t seen in weeks) about who gets to keep the dog.

My mom was pretty much lethargic. She was talking in circles, and I couldn’t get her out of bed let alone out to lunch. She had growths on the bottom of her feet the size of golf balls, and her mind clearly wasn’t there; every now and then a cheerful “Hi!” leaving her lips mid conversation, as if I had just walked into the room though I had been there close to an hour trying to get her up and out. Eventually, I had to leave as I had a ferry home to catch. It was heartbreaking. Everything that’s happening to her and that she is doing to herself is heartbreaking. And I’m no longer convinced it’s psychosis and alcoholism. I believe most of what she is today is purely alcohol related. She lost a few marbles before she started drinking as much as she does, sure. But what she is today isn’t my mom at all, and the irreparable damage drinking excess of a litre of Gin a day has done to her brain and body is beyond comprehension.

I miss my mom. And I can’t stand to see her this way. But I live my daily life and try to push the sad reality of what’s happening to the back of my head. And still, life is good for me. I have it so much better than so many others. And there’s literally nothing that can happen to me, or that I can do to myself that can change that.


This is my personal weblog. The thoughts and opinions represented here are mine and mine alone. They do not reflect those of my employers, associates or peers.

I am forever changing and always staying this same; a true living contradiction and as such, my thoughts and opinions change frequently. I may or may not still hold the same opinions noted in out-of-date posts.

By reading my blog, you agree to accept these realities as absolute truth.


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No matter where I am, I'm lost and learning to like it. I'm a living contradiction, and the best lies I tell are the ones I tell myself.
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