Forever Tainted

In a month and a half, I’ll be turning 30 - or what I tend to answer when people ask: 25 for the 6th time. I’m not sure why people want to interpret that for twenty-five times six, when I really mean, when I turned 25 it was the 1st time, the following year it was the 2nd time, so on, and so on. Perhaps it says a lot about people’s psyche. Perhaps it says a lot about my own. I don’t know. I just know that as per usual, what seems commonsense for me… isn’t so much for the majority.

I don’t really have an issue with being 30. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to embrace getting older. I’ve spent a lot of time letting go of a childhood and a youth many argue I never really got to have. As I get older, I get a greater understanding. I got to have both a childhood and a youth. Mine was just so very varied from others; I got the chance to have a different perspective, a different view of the world and my life as well as others.

I had a great childhood, full of alcoholism and poverty. I had brilliant youth, full of learning to love and lose, and all else that is great in the world. And now… now I’m having a great adulthood. The only thing that is really lacking is my eagerness to be a child again.

And no… I don’t mean be a child in the sense that most would. I mean be a child when it was easy to stay in touch with those you love: when making time, space and putting effort in to be with those who meant the world to you was effortless. My regret is not making a better effort.

Tonight, I spoke to an old friend. Or rather, he feels a lot like an old friend though, I really haven’t known him long enough to call him that: maybe a year or two. The point, I love him with all my heart – yet I don’t talk to him daily, weekly, or even monthly. Today after we spoke, I sent him a text wishing we both make a better effort to stay in touch in the future. I’ve made that request before of other friends… it’s just that tonight I realized how important it might really be to follow through.

I’ve lost the one person I love and admire most on this planet. In light of that, I realize how important it is to keep those you truly love close to you. Know, that if I’m pointing this at you (and even for some of you I haven’t because it hasn’t occurred to me you read my blog or didn’t know it already even), I love you. I want to thank you for being a part of my life.

When I came back to Canada three years ago, I allowed myself to somewhat join in on the Christmas festivities. Christmas was after all, my, like every other child’s, favorite holiday. Religiously, no longer a celebrator, I still worked my full eight hours last year and the year before, and I took the most undesirable shift possible (so someone who celebrates didn’t have to).

Last year was a bit different though, as it was the first Christmas without my mom. Everyone was set in his or her thoughts that Christmas would be terribly glum. I did everything in my power to make that impossible. I did everything I could to create a brilliant Christmas for my loved ones. I thought maybe, it could offer us all hope.

I brought home a tree and I decorated it. I bought countless gifts for my family, and Sam (who was at that time staying at my house) and her daughter (who I would pick up from her father’s house to join us on Christmas morning). I knew there would be very little under the tree for me as my family here consisted of my brother, who can’t seem to hold onto a job and my father, who though generous all year round, has never been good at gifts on demand. Sam was financially inept and totally selfish, so it came as no surprise that she spent what little money she had saved by not paying rent on herself, her daughter and her new boyfriend.

I didn’t want a single person to feel bad on Christmas morning. And I figured they would, if they opened gifts while I sat empty-handed. So, while I stuffed stockings for others, I also stuffed one for myself. I bought myself small gifts and wrapped them. I failed to sign my name to any single gift under the tree, so it wasn’t obvious to anyone, not even Sam’s daughter, that I had purchased 99% of them.

And Christmas last year was a hit. Everyone had a great time, and my heart was filled with absolute joy. The only thing that was missing was my mom. I know if she were looking down, she’d be proud of the Christmas I single-handedly created, despite my personal religious convictions.

This year, I have way less money than last, but I cannot help feel the festivities in the air.

We bought a live tree instead of cut, feeling it is more environmentally friendly and convenient to do so. Live trees don’t drop as many needles and we can put it outside after the holiday’s, watch it grow till next year when we’ll bring it in and decorate it again.

I have been shopping since mid-October, to make up for any financial loss and ensure that everyone is again spoiled. And this year, thanks to Lars, I too will be sincerely spoiled; He’s stuffed my stocking and bought me gifts and I won’t know what they are until I open them on Christmas morning. My father has thrown money at the both of us either by shopping with us or refusing rent payments, to help purchase necessities and gifts on his behalf.

The closets and nooks in the house are already filled with beautifully wrapped boxes, contents unknown. The excitement reminds me of when I was a little girl. And there are still 18 days left!

The days shall go by quickly, as I head to Squamish again on the 14th for a few days. I am not necessarily looking forward to it. It’s colder there and they’ve got snow, I’ve been told. I really don’t have the choice though… On the 9th I have legal documents to sign, and who knows what else will happen in between.

Religiously, I’m not meant to celebrate this favorite holiday of mine. But these days I can feel the importance of taking part in what your family celebrates and it by no means changes my religious convictions. Besides, I can still remember one Christmas in Dubai, my refusal to celebrate Christmas brought my mother to tears... It was simply wrong, offensive, and selfish of me. I feel the same may very well be true today.

Leaving my house of out sheer frustration today, I found myself wandering down the beach side, and into a graveyard. I think it’s important to remember the dead, even if you never knew them while they lived. A visit to the graveyard helps remind you, that you a mere mortal…

I took photos along the way, as I often find its easier to express myself creatively, rather than talking. And the number of pain-killers and sedatives I’ve taken today make talking or typing a pretty big task.


Walking along the water, I found this bouquet in the tree. I can only assume it’s there to remind passer-by’s of a death that had occurred there. Such sights are not uncommon here.


~*~
Than I came across a place I felt belonged…



And though it didn’t look just like that while I was there, in my mind, that’s exactly what I saw.

~*~

Two things struck me at the graveyard:



The date of death on this was 1919. 91 Years ago. And there are fresh flowers on her tombstone today. It goes to show some people will not ever be forgotten. Who could have lived long enough ago to remember Agnes Roberts? And how old is this person now?

Some pains never die. And some people will always be loved, even in death.

~*~

In death, there was an abundance of life:



I sincerely hope my grave looks something like this when I’m gone.



~*~

As I made my way back to the path by the water… I found myself a peace.

What matters…

I miss you Zorana.

I ran alone tonight. I ran hard. I ran from what I was feeling. I ran to cleanse. I ran until I felt a jinnie (Authu bi Allah min ashaytan ir regime) behind me. I saw his shadow, shorter than myself, running beside me. I gasped. My heart raced, and I started to panic. I spun and ran as hard as I could towards the light. And you flashed in my mind. I saw you seething, not breathing as you growled in my direction. I watched your eyes roll back into your head, before finally your face softened and you whimpered my name. I heard the thunder of his chanting holy words. I saw myself run towards you and heard my husband and the Mullah yell at me simultaneously to leave you crying on my livingroom floor – because it wasn’t really you at all.

And for a moment tonight, I felt foolish as if I didn’t believe my own story. But I know it was true. I know it happened. I saw it with my own eyes. And I know for a moment tonight, I was at risk myself.

I miss you Zorana. I love you terribly and wish you were with me at nights like tonight.