Fuck You-Haul: A draft

“I’m sick of you, and I want you gone.”

The parting between my mother and I upon my leaving home did not have much love lost, and hadn’t for a very long time. Both of us had developed enough protective nacre against the irritating other, that we didn’t feel anything less than the greatest of insults. Five days after my high school graduation, I was packing up a U-Haul filled with my things, and if it weren’t for my having to actually show up to the ceremony, I would have left even earlier and had it mailed to me.

Nine years in that fucking town, and to stay any longer, was an order too tall to fulfill.

What I said to her in response, I can’t recall.

The nature of our relationship is represented well by this exchange; her words were crystal and cut to the bone, whereas my own replies have been muted, wiped down and sanitised in my own head. Perhaps it’s the nature of the way the mind words. More likely, it is my mind and ego’s way of protecting myself from the acid I’d spit at anyone close enough, not to mention the useful tool of plausible deniability.

More than likely, I just told her to go fuck herself, as I hoisted my teenage body up into the cab of the moving van.


Been working on my memoir. By “been working,” I mean “basically started ten minutes ago.”

Here, a draft.

The exact moment my life changed forever, remains only as a worn-out projected film onto the uneven surface of my mind. Fuzzy forms, unclear dialogue, but the excitement of my mother remains clear enough to for my heart to ache and eyes to water.

The light from the kitchen window lit her unfathomably petite frame from behind; I always loved that window, because it looked into the neighbour’s house. The way the light would hit the sill, and how I could catch glimpses of their lives, it was a portal into another world from the safety of my own. The kitchen itself was beautiful, in its plain, modest way; the decor itself was nonexistent, but its beauty was found in the comfort and care that it represented. There, my mother would dutifully prepare meals for us, and I could watch her pour her heart and soul into one of the few ways she could openly show how much she loved us.

Perhaps she was wearing an apron, I really feel like she always had one. Was it frilly? It felt like it was frilly and white with pink accents. On anyone else, it would have looked absurd, especially when paired with her five layers of stockings, two shirts and the three sweaters she’d always wear. Being under 80 pounds, she always felt self-conscious about her delicate, bird like build and would try to create a more formidable silhouette by layering her clothing. She generally would fail.

I looked up at her. The Saturday afternoon sun filled the room, lighting up her delicate body and her strong, vibrant smile. “We are moving to Trail, to start our own restaurant!”, she leaned in, conspiratorially, as if saying it too loudly would cause her lifelong dream of owning a business to crack and break. Being eight years old at the time, I could not understand what the implications of that were, of having to know the timeline of this event, the logistics, the inception, the intinerary, and all of that serious, big-people stuff. All I could understand was, how beautiful my mommy looked, how utterly excited she was, and I couldn’t help but be wrapped up in her joy like I was getting one of her startlingly strong hugs. She was happy, and that’s all that really mattered in this world to me; I would go anywhere, do anything, be anyone, to make my mom smile the way this “Trail” place did.

It would be many years later, that I’d want to see her smile at me like that again.

Sexual, not Sexy.

All I want to do is reclaim my body.

My entire life, this ambulatory, confusing bag of meat and bones has been considered a plaything, punching bag, object of desire, and scapegoat by so many throughout the years. Very rarely, has my body ever truly been regarded as a delight or something to hold and love; not by others and certainly not by me.

Can I ever feel safe in my body, experiencing the full power of my sexuality instead of observing it through a glass of depersonalized, dulled sensations and emotions?

Very unlikely, it seems. Even when alone, I love myself with the aplomb of an old married couple that’s long given up trying to kill the other one.

Since about age 23, I regarded my self and masturbation as a necessary evil. Certainly not an awful, sinful thing that should be repressed for Jesus’s delicate sensibilities – more like an annoying bodily function, a buildup of energy that I need to excise from my body. Orgasms aren’t an expression of genuine pleasure nor arousal for me, but a way of ridding a physical discomfort, be it the ache of arousal between my legs, or the staccato thumping of anxiety against my rib cage. While climaxing does feel quite nice during and after, getting there is about as fun as cycling uphill in a sandstorm.

And having a partner in this dance, really doesn’t make it any easier.

I don’t particularly love myself; I feel hideous and defective, when the layers are stripped away. Because I’ve internalized all the horrible, damaging messages I had flung at me growing up, there seems to be nothing worthwhile underneath. I feel like I can’t allow myself to feel pleasure but I simultaneously feel pressure to perform and to give my body over as some form of currency for attention and affection.

As a result, how can I teach or even allow others to love me?

When people touch me, there’s a feeling of being invaded, a secret space in my heart that’s being encroached without my enthusiastic permission, even when I have given permission, and quite enthusiastically.

Trust me, I know that this doesn’t make any sense.

When people pleasure me, I feel immensely frightened. My body becomes activated in ways that I don’t understand. I have been immersed in unsafe environments where hypervigilance is not only useful, but necessary. At any moment, I may need to fight, flight, or freeze; therefore, anything resembling arousal is equated with danger. As my breath shortens and cheeks begin to flush as blood travels southwards, I begin to demand that I get myself under control. It’s all about control, for if I have an ironclad grip on my pleasure, they will never be able to use it against me.

And then there’s the performative pressure I put on myself.

The aforementioned excited consent and desire to explore someone (rather than experience my own pleasurable emotions and sensations) then run up against a wall of questions and anxieties.

Should I moan deeply, and growl? Arch my back, squirm incessantly? They’re pleasuring me, I don’t feel anything, should I feel something? What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just be in the moment and aroused like a normal person? Why do I even bother, I don’t mean anything to them, they are here to simply use me and then trash me to their buddies.

As all of this runs through my head, the brakes are promptly applied to any sort of arousal I may have had, and I end up berating myself silently while flopping around like some sort of fish-person posing for a skin rag.

There’s a number of things wrong with this picture. First, rather accept the fact that the other person is unfamiliar with my body, and comes with their own collection of sexual baggage and hang ups, I place all the blame on myself. It is I who is defective, and wrong for enjoying things the way I do, or don’t. Secondly, and quite simply, I don’t allow myself the permission to be my own person, with my own set of likes and dislikes. Because of my insecurity and innately competitive nature, I have to simultaneously be an amalgamation of every favorite porn star they’ve ever jerked it to, and the best lay they’ve ever had.

Jesus, I put impossible standards that obviously prevent myself from really having fun.

Of course, none of these things are true, nor are they beneficial for me. It’s just a matter of understanding it intellectually, and allowing the feeling of being worthwhile and just fine the way I am to really get through this armour of self-hatred. It’s really slow going, as it’s taken me 30 years to internalize these sentiments, and will take me probably just as long to finally let them go… just in time for everything to start sagging.

But at least I’ll be having fun.

Caveat fuckin’ Empor


So far, I’ve had pretty good luck on purchasing things on Kijiji/Craigslist. Granted, sometimes I end up paying more than I should, and there’s always the concern about an item being defective, or its advertisement dishonestly described.

My cell phone was stolen, as I left it somewhere unattended, and I was hunting for a replacement one. As I was still under contract and not made of money, to Kijiji I went. Scrolling through the listings, I found one that was the same model, and for a decent price. We arranged for a time to meet.

When I met the guy, he was awkward and elusive with his answers. I did my best to inspect the phone, but for the most part, it was wiped clean and seemed good to go. Payment made, and he scurried off in a hurry. Odd, I thought.

Turns out the phone was far from clean.

Buddy was using some sort of modified operating system (which did involve some complicated rolling back, but that’s irrelevant) and turns out his formatting didn’t scrub clean those hard-to-reach places.

As I scrolled through, I found porn. Ew, but whatever, that makes some sense. Dudes like naked chicks, oftentimes.

And then I found the women’s underwear.

Seems like our purveyor of phones enjoys carefully placing lacy underwear in a bathroom sink, and masturbating onto the fabric.

While phoning himself. I found video after video of him doing this.

I then yelped, and began to dunk my phone in hand sanitizer for hours, but could not wash off the dirt ON MY SOUL.

So uh, caveat empor.

To sleep, perchance, to dream.

Reality is beginning to bleed along the edges. Nothing to sound the alarms about, but things are getting increasingly muddled for me. Sleep has become a dreaded event, and im beginning to really fucking hate those “little slices of death.”
In fact, death would be welcomed, for at least I would have some peace and quiet, because right now, I feel as though I’m being plagued by bloodthirsty hounds, no matter where I go.
Nightmares happen, of that I’m aware. Thing is, whole I can cope with nightmares, the constant panic attacks that rouse me out of a dead sleep, are harder to deal with. Compound that with these horrific, emotionally rending dreams of exes trying to rape me, wolves attacking en masse, wave after wave, and me, screaming at my mother for every sin she committed in my childhood, and you’ve got eight hours of hell.
About three times a night, I awaken, heart pounding, disoriented and raw. During the day, I am a walking corpse, exhausted and fighting off the dream images that flood my mind, even when I’m awake.
There is no rest from the wicked, and I am becoming frayed, strand by strand.

Staring into the Void

Sometimes, I honestly have no idea who I am. Barring the trauma induced /naturally occurring existential unknowing, I also am perpetually amazed by how many different lives I’ve lived. Lost child, wayward party kid, stepford girlfriend, sleep deprived wannabe-slut, to the closest thing to normal I’ve ever resembled.

And the normal period of my life? I worked for a porn company.

Man, even from hour to hour, I change. I go from guileless ingenue, to lesbian biker vampire, often within the same evening. Sure, it’s all just clothes, but my everything changes. My features shift and harden, depending on how much hetero male attention I crave. Even my body language changes, sometimes I’ve got the sashay of an amorous secretary, or I’ve got the battle hardened stride of a woman who has roared. Other times, I slump and shrink, doing my best to disappear from this plane of existence.

Primarily because I measure my insides to another’s outsides, but it seems like I’m a real life shapeshifter, effortlessly shirking and taking on mantles as easily as one puts on socks. Maybe it’s a gift, I can empathize with another by imagining myself as another, and I can play hostess or whore with equal amounts ease.

Personally, I’ve thought of it as a curse. There feels like there is no acceptable core to my personality, and what is there, is a raw, screaming mess. I cover it in emotional nacre, refusing to let another soul to come near it. I adored playing pretend, as I was raised to believe that who I was, was unacceptable. My needs, tears, existence were meant to be scrubbed away, and painted over with something a little prettier, don’t you think, sweetheart?

All my tears, my rage, and feelings of loneliness were ordered to be excised from my body and only palatable characteristics are permitted to remain. Maybe this is a socialization that all women, or maybe all people go through, the process of hiding our bad in order for everything to not fall apart. Maybe the new Snowflake movement is because for the first time in our civilization, we are not hiding all of our bullshit from the world.

Maybe I’m just a fuckup who can’t seem to hide it any longer.

Regardless, people laud me for my authenticity, which makes me cringe. What realness? Everything I put forth, feels like drag, and not particularly successful drag at that. My smiles, the quips that roll off my tongue (whether I want them to or not), and the ability to put others either at ease or discomfort, it all feels orchestrated and not honest in any sense of the word.

Through therapy, I’m toying with the notion that maybe these palatable, enjoyable characteristics are as real as the self-loathing and insecurities I harbour inside. My entire life, I’ve rejected what I’ve projected outwards, and kept all the messy insides buried deep within, for absolutely no one to see. It was simply safer that way. As a result, I’ve viewed my personality as a persona, a mask I put on to face the world. I don’t know what is real and what isn’t anymore.

I don’t think anyone does.

Under-Over Achiever

(From my paper blog, which is far less polished than what I’m used to putting forth.)

End of November is coming up.

Been working on/borderline struggling on processing three decades’ worth of experiences and emotions that are swimming around in my head. Calgary is now said and done, and I’m spending most of my mental energy trying to cope with how disparate my memories are, especially in comparison to my expectations I had of the place. It was where I grew, where I saw my wretched pettiness and insecurity truly rear its ugly head, the place where I took my first and last stand against abusive situations. Most importantly, it’s where I learned to learn.

Calgary was the city where I expected to both flourish and self-destruct. I recall babbling of my desire to dive headfirst into college life, of drinking and wanton lesbian sex. Gimme a break, I was sixteen.

In this city, I expected to be free to be me, or at least in the way my scrambled teenaged brain expected me to be. Something simple, something beautiful, that would inevitably burn bright and burn out. Calgary was were I wanted to find out what I truly wanted, without the emotional entanglements of an oppressive and abusive family and social environment. Before I left, I physically felt suffocated by all the trauma and restrictions on my self-expression, and I yearned for the day I could truly take flight, without the pebbles to boulders of bullshit others tied on me. But like some sort of dysfunctional security blanket, I physically carted my abusers and baggage to in the U-Haul I rented.

I feel a great deal of disappointment in my delay and inability to shake those monkeys off of my back. They damaged me and I feel like so much of my energy was spent trying to survive and trying to convince myself that this cloud of depression and abuse was perfectly normal. I suppose because for a very long time, it was my normal.

Part of me is terrified that perhaps I couldn’t have been much better if left to my own devices.

So much blame is placed on my choices in partners and life choices, yet there’s this underlying terror that perhaps this is the best I could do, ever. But maybe it was, and maybe that was enough. If I reframe it, I did all sorts of crazy-cool-courageous shit.

I attended and did well in a vicious design program that weeded out 1/3 of the students who applied, worked from 7am to 11pm in both schoolwork, freelance and part-time work (considered impossible to do in the program,) grew immensely as an artist by honing my technical drawing skills, learned the painful reality of time and financial management, quit my self harming (cutting, drinking, sleep deprivation,) and anoretic coping mechanisms, came out as queer, left two abusive relationships and finally put an end to my being a victim of the cycle of violence by beginning the journey in processing the trauma of my past.

All of this before I was 23 years of age.

Oh, and I graduated from my design program and began working full-time in what was the first step in the rest of my life, as a professional creator.

That’s a lot. That’s a lot for anyone, at any age, let alone a kid who had a very screwed up idea as to what she was worth, and still kept her wild dreams of being something great.

My still-active neuroticism makes me paranoid that perhaps I’ve peaked. Maybe I have lost those hard-won lesson that I accrued from my life in Trail and Calgary.

Wisdom and age has taught me that when that voice crops up, all I need to say is “Shut the hell up, you’re killing it.”