Where Have You Been?

Almost three months have passed since I’ve added anything to this space. My bad. I’ve been a little bit preoccupied with some things and haven’t had much inspiration to write.

What have I been up to over the past nine-ish weeks, you might ask? Well.

I’ve been listening to a lot of music. In heavy rotation in my iTunes library are Ben Howard’s new album, I Forget Where We Were; Taylor’s Swift’s new disc, 1989; Tove Lo’s Queen of the Clouds and Calvin Harris’ Motion; as well as Iggy Azalea’s The New Classic.

I’ve been reading a lot, too. I recently re-read the last two books in the Harry Potter series, The Half-Blood Prince and The Deathly Hallows. Up here on “Canadian Thanksgiving” back in October, one of our TV stations showed an HP movie marathon over the weekend and reignited my love of all-things-Harry. I always appreciate seeing my favourite novels brought to life on film, but, like most bibliophiles, I get extremely irked by how much is lost in translation or just plain left out, so I wanted to take a walk down memory lane and remember the exact high jinks Harry et al got into during their quest to defeat the big-bad Voldy.

Another novel I’ve been working my way through (because it is loooong) is Edge of Eternity, by Ken Follett, the third book in his Century Triology. It’s a super interesting read, but seriously lengthy, so I took a break three-quarters of the way through. Harry and his friends were a great escape from the darker tones of the Cold War period.

What I haven’t been doing a lot of is running, which kind of makes me sad, but there’s a pretty good reason for it. Over the past three months (right around the last time I posted), I looked like this:

14 Weeks

But, as of last Saturday, I now look like this:

25 Weeks

Readers of this space who know me in real life have known for weeks now that Dave and I are over-the-moon-excited to be adding a little girl to our family at the end of February. I’ve wanted to write about it here, but I’ve been purposefully holding off. Why? Well, for a lot of reasons, actually, but mostly because I don’t want this space to become strictly a blog about babies. Or parenthood. Or pregnancy. Although I like to write and share stories about my life as it happens, I can also be immensely private. To me, pregnancy is a wonderful experience, but it’s a personal one. I don’t feel the need to bombard everyone with my feelings or thoughts or views on the process. I strive to maintain a balance of me-as-a-mother and me-as-a-person, here in this space, as well as in real life. Thankfully, it hasn’t been too difficult yet.

Just as I’ve missed running (I’ve been sidelined since the end of my first trimester due to a plethora of things), I’ve missed writing here. I’ll try and be more present, but ask you to please forgive my possible preoccupation. There might be an increase of posts about babies and parenthood and pregnancy, but there might not be. At this point, I’m unsure of what direction this blog will take.

I will say this: I don’t want my little corner of the Internet to fall by the wayside because I like it here. I feel comfortable here. I want to be here. All I know is that I love a good adventure and I’m incredibly excited to be embarking on my biggest one yet. I hope you’ll continue to tag along for the ride.

The Best Of All Of Us

Yesterday someone in my Facebook network shared this photo and it really got me thinking:


When I was growing up, I always thought my parents’ separation was a BAD THING. I’ve written before about it here in this space, about how I was so angry at my father for leaving, so angry at my mother for letting him leave, so angry at my step-siblings for the time they were able to spend with my father, time that I could not. For a long time I was a mean-spirited, hateful girl who grew into the same kind of woman.

Thankfully, things change and time (usually) heals all wounds.

You’d think, as one who strongly subscribes to the theory of “everything happen for a reason”, I would’ve calmed down a bit and let life progress as it should instead of railing on and on about how my family did me wrong. It honestly wasn’t until Dave and I started dating that I realized that this one, big, BAD THING that had happened was actually one of the best things to occur in my life. Why? Because my father moved to Prince Edward Island when I was seven years old and still lives there to this day. I moved in with him for a short amount of time when I was twenty-two. Of course, being a young adult, I needed a job. When I finally got one in Charlottetown it was where Dave worked. Aside from a few muddled years apart, the rest, as they say, is history.

But this isn’t about Dave. Not this time.

It’s true that if my parents hadn’t split up and my father hadn’t moved to PEI where my stepmother’s family lives I never would’ve met my husband. I mean, maybe, I might have, some other way, some other time, but I doubt it. I guess it’s possible. The chances would have been slim, but maybe still possible.

What I do know for a fact, however, is that if my parents hadn’t separated when I was four years old I one-hundred-percent, for-sure, without-a-doubt would not have met one of my most favourite people in the world; without whom my life would be very different indeed. Without her, my life would be a little duller, a little less fun. If my parents hadn’t separated and my father hadn’t met my stepmother, I wouldn’t have the privilege of knowing and adoring my little sister, Saundra. Without a doubt, if the BAD THING hadn’t have happened, she wouldn’t have happened either.

This is about her.

Saundra was born when I was six years old. I don’t remember my father telling me about her impending arrival. Honestly, how I remember finding out I had a little sister goes like this: My father came over to pick me up from my house one day and told me he was taking me to meet my new baby sister. I was a little confused, but I went with him to the hospital. She was in one of those glass, incubator-ish, crib-like trays (technical term), with a name card on the side. She was pink and tiny and wrapped tightly in an equally tiny blanket.

We met twenty-four years ago today.

Today is her twenty-fourth birthday.

Regrettably, I didn’t get to spend a lot of time with Saundra as we grew up. I wish I had. My father and stepfamily moved to Ontario shortly after she was born and then to PEI not long after that, and I remained home with my mother, 300-plus kilometres away. As I’ve touched on before, I usually only saw my stepfamily for roughly six weeks during the summer months. Six weeks out of a year is not enough time. I think we both wanted more, but distance – and life itself – would not permit it.

But, again, things change. Thankfully, Saundra and I have spent more time together as we’ve grown (although not nearly as much as I’d like) and our similarities have paved the way for a close bond to form between us. Even though we don’t see one another or speak as often as I’d like, I love and appreciate her more than there are words to explain (but it wouldn’t be like me not to try).

I might not know all there is about my sister, but of this I’m sure: She is the best of all of us.

She gets her kindness from our father, something he instilled in her from the very beginning of her days. From her mother she received her intelligence, her raw and demanding desire for knowledge. She has Andrew’s big heart, as vast and deep as the fathomless sea. From James, she acquired a sense of unbridled ferocity, ready and willing to defend anyone or anything she believes in or loves. She gained her strong sense of determination and her love of children from Sarah, and there are three kids (almost four!) who are incredibly blessed to have her as their aunt.

I’m not sure what she got from me. Sometimes I think it’s my love of all-things-nerdy, like books and films and tea and all those random things that come from the off-beaten path. Sometimes, maybe, I think it could be my strong sense of empathy and how I just feel everything so damn much because, sometimes, she does too. Maybe still it’s only those physical traits she has that we both have, traits we received from our father, the same hands and the shape of our eyes and how we can crook our left eyebrow like it’s nobody’s business.

I’m not sure what she got from me but I know one thing’s for certain – she is the slyest and surest of thieves, for she’s stolen my heart completely. She damn-well does it to just about everyone she meets and you just can’t help but let her. She is disarming and selfless and a force to be reckoned with. She is laughter, love, and light made real. She is our brightest, shining star.

Everything happens for a reason. Without the BAD THING that happened to me, I wouldn’t have one of the BEST THINGS that ever happened to me.


Happy birthday, you wise, beautiful girl. My goodness, I just love you so.

When It Gets Dark Enough

More often than not in this space, even though I try to avoid it, I talk about serious things. I try to keep the mood light, but sometimes – okay most times – it just doesn’t work out that way.

Two days ago, one of my childhood heroes passed away. I’ve read that he took his own life. As his death has positively dominated both the airwaves and the Internet, I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that I’m talking about Robin Williams.

I’m not usually one who gets caught up in death. This especially applies to the deaths of people I’m not close to, as is the case with celebrities. As I’ve mentioned before, when my grandmother died I was out of the province and didn’t even come home until I absolutely had to (which was for her funeral). I try not to think about death because I truly consider myself to be one of the most sensitive people on this planet. If I think about death and dying for too long I start sobbing and am never able to pull myself together afterwards. Sobbing equals headaches, and hurts, and sore, puffy eyes, which is why I try and distance myself from it.

Robin’s death has had a huge affect on me. Truthfully, and it sounds strange to me that I’d even thought of this, he was the one celebrity whose death I always knew would hit me hard. For some reason I’d asked myself that question before: “Who is the one celebrity who I’ll be really upset over when I hear they’ve died?” The answer was always, always Robin Williams. I’ve been a fan of his since he was Batty Koda in Fern Gully. I was eight years old when the film was released and I just adored Batty. He was so funny, so out-there, and so loveable, just like Robin himself.

My love of Robin and his work only expanded once I saw him as Peter Pan, the Genie, Mrs. Doubtfire, and Jack. As I grew older and his roles seemed to switch gears into more dramatic ones, I only loved him more. I loved him as Sean Maquire in Good Will Hunting, as Chris Nielsen in What Dreams May Come, and as Jakob in Jakob the Liar. While in university, I became obsessed with his standup routines. When I was living in England for a semester, far away from most civilization in a 11th century castle, his Live on Broadway kept me sane during my isolated downtime, if that makes any sense at all (truly, you’ll know what I mean if you’ve seen it).

But now he’s gone. The story so far paints the picture of an amazingly funny, but amazingly depressed man. He struggled with both drug and alcohol addiction. He’d had some stints in rehab over the years, most recently a month ago. From what I’ve read, he was found hanging from a belt in his closet after trying – and failing – to cut his wrists. He left no note to explain his actions.

I think what hurts the most is that Robin, a man most of us thought as happy-go-lucky, wasn’t. I hate to make assumptions, but to take one’s life one has to be deeply depressed. Happy people don’t kill themselves on a whim. I know this because I’ve been both – depressed and happy, cycling through these emotions for most of my life. Right now I’m happy and such happiness only amplifies my desire and will to be alive, but I know exactly what it’s like to feel the opposite. I know exactly how it feels to so strongly wish to be dead and to desire complete and utter oblivion.

Despite my current state of happiness, I would be a fool not to admit there is a sense of fear that dwells just below the surface of my skin, wondering when my depression will return. Originally I’d wrote “whether my depression will return”, but I deleted it. It’s not a question of whether – it will return. It always does.

I am all-too aware of how people view me in my daily life. Just this weekend a friend of mine mentioned when she turns thirty she’s going to cry for two weeks straight. My response was to tell her it really isn’t as bad as all that; that turning thirty is actually quite enjoyable (as in my experience, it has been). Another friend of ours piped up to say that of course, turning thirty was enjoyable for me – I’m married, have a good job, etc. From the outside, I must come across as having nailed down this thing called life, maybe I even have one that’s enviable to others, but I truly don’t feel that way. I try and live a simple existence because I know how fragile life can be, how quickly it can change and twist and turn.

If you’re a frequent reader of this space, you know all about the abuse I endured for two years of my life. What I rarely talk about is the afterwards. The fallout. The months of living alone, the trying to pick up the pieces, the nights of sleeplessness, the aggression and fear and anger I took out on my own body because the pain was in there and I had to get it out somehow. Things I never told even my mother or my best friend. Wearing long-sleeved shirts and making sure I was covered at all times so no one could see the bloodied cuts and scabs that crisscrossed my arms and shoulders because I knew no other way to release the pain than to cut it out of me.

At this time, though, no one saw how depressed I was. They thought that because I was free of my abuser, I was happy. Many times people told me it was nice to see me smiling more; laughing more. Many times they told me my attitude had taken a complete 180, when the reality couldn’t have been less true. On the outside I was happy. On the inside I was dying. In public I was a smiling, normal twenty-five year old. In private I was a mess, barely keeping myself together.

Things turned around when Dave and I began dating. I don’t like putting my happiness in the hands of anyone but myself, but he did help me recover, whether he intended to or not. He has never made me feel unsafe, afraid, stupid, or unloved. Since we’ve been together my depression returned for a short time (when I lost my job), but not nearly as bad as it had been in the past. I don’t expect it to never come back just because I now share a great life with a great man. Depression doesn’t give a shit if you’re married or single, a parent or not, employed or jobless. Look at Robin: from the outside his life seemed amazing, but obviously there was something extremely wrong. He might have seemed like the brightest of stars, but we tend to forget stars are unpredictable. Stars become supernovas. Robin’s star shined so bright it burned right out.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that the old adage is true: “Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind. Always.” Just because someone is smiling doesn’t mean they’re happy. Just because someone is laughing in front of you doesn’t mean they aren’t in tears the very second they’re alone. Depression is very real and very scary and the stigma around it must be shaken and quickly. If you’re feeling down and afraid and bleak, please talk to someone. Please reach out. Please don’t live your life in fear. Please don’t think that leaving this earth is the only option you have. I know it might not feel like it now, but there are beautiful things here in this life and you’ll never know just how close they might be if you leave it all behind. You might not believe it, but there are people who love you and who will miss you more than you know. I’m not saying the sadness won’t ever return because I’m almost one hundred percent sure it will, just try and remember it won’t last forever. I refuse to believe depression is a constant. Change is the truest thing I know.

There’s a saying that I clung to during my times of despair: When it gets dark enough, you can see stars. It helped me remember that even in the blackest of nights there is beauty and light shining eternally, and even when I felt down so deep I couldn’t see there would still be light to guide me, if only I’d look up.

So look up. Keep searching for the light, because it’s there. I promise you, it’s there – you only need to look up.


If you or someone you know is suicidal and needs help, I urge you to contact the Canadian Association for Suicide Prevention to locate a crisis centre in your area.