The Compass. Global Destruction. Rogue Gnomes. Or, the consequences of my boss asking me what she could possibly use her Christmas Cracker compass for.
As you may have inferred from the title, I had an interesting time at my staff Christmas party. There were nine of us sitting around two long tables we'd pushed together. As we were eating, we started popping open our Christmas Crackers. Mine was a weird, plastic clip thing that broke seconds after it erupted from its tube. My boss, the actual title-holding "Librarian" at our library, got a small compass. She made a silly, passing comment about what she could possibly use the compass for. … She did it to herself, really.
The conversation was thus:
Me: “If you were lost in the woods, in the middle of nowhere, how else would you find your way out?”
Librarian: “Well, generally I would look at where the sun is in the sky.”
Me: “There is no sun, the sun is gone.”
Librarian: “Oh? Well, don’t you use moss then? It grows on the north side of the tree.”
Me: “All the moss has been burned away. There is no moss. The sun has exploded, the sky is all red, and the Earth is on fire. There’s no more moss.”
Librarian: “Well, if that was the case, I think I’d have more pressing matters than finding north on a compass.”
Me: “Ah, but there’s a special building that was built just for this purpose, and it’s 50 miles north of where you are in the forest. The few people who survived the Earth being destroyed are there, and you have to get to them.”
Co-Worker: “Well, but what if she gets there, and they don’t let her in?”
Me: “Ah, but she has something that they need! She has a key, the only key that will start the generator inside the building to make it work.”
Co-Worker: “What kind of key?”
Me: “A diamond key.”
Librarian: “So, if I have the key, then why was I in the forest in the first place?”
Me: “’Cause you had to go get something. The Gnome Princess! You have to get her and bring her back to the building, and she’s going to repopulate the Earth.”
Co-Worker: “Hang on, there’s gnomes? That isn’t Earth!”
Me: “There’s gnomes on Earth!”
Co-Worker: “Really? Where are they?”
Me: “My old neighbor has a bunch in her garden. They all came to life. It was rogue gnomes who destroyed the Sun and the Earth in the first place. The other gnomes are good. So, in one hand, she has the key, and in the other, she has the Gnome Princess - tucked right under her arm, ‘cause she’s tiny.”
Co-Worker # 2: “Gnomes? What are you talking about?”
Me: “The fantasy world in which she would need to use her compass.”
Co-Worker # 2: “And that led to … that’s quite the imagination you’ve got there, girl.”
Me: “You have no idea.”
Co-Worker: “Yeah, but I’m pretty sure that cheap, Dollar Store compass wouldn’t last her very long.”
Me: “Ahh, but they thought of that. They knew that she would need the compass, and that the Rogue Gnomes would destroy it if they found it, so they put it in with a bunch of cheap ones to disguise it.”
Co-Worker: “Oh, god.”
Me: (snicker).
Co-Worker: “You should totally write this down.”
Monday, December 12, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Worried, Happy, Nervous
Worried Leads to Happy Leads to Nervous … Or my experience with the Hunger Games.
I’ve been working at the Sylvan Lake library for a few months now. I’ve seen and read several new books that I really liked, hogged the ones that I loved, and complained about the ones that were terrible (sorry, Gerch, but I just can’t take your book seriously. At all.).
Since getting nominated for one of my fan fictions (which I won 1st place for, woot!), I’ve been trying to spend more time writing. I’ve been neglecting my writing since school started, and I started working part-time, and all this bullshit with my adopted brother hit the fan. I have always loved writing, but lately it’s been seeming like a chore - so much easier to just plop in a movie and fall asleep. (I know, I suck.)
Anyways, for some time now, I’ve been hearing about this book trilogy called “The Hunger Games”. My workmates have been talking it up like there’s no tomorrow. I hadn’t decided if I was going to read it, though, until I saw a preview for the upcoming movie. The preview looked awesome enough for me to want to watch the movie. Since I’m the kind of person who hates when books get made into movies - ‘cause they ALWAYS leave too much out/change too much - I decided I’d at least have to read the series first.
Ooh boy … I have not gotten much sleep in the last few days.
I took the first book home from the library on Friday, and started reading it Sunday. I finished it after work Monday, and just about screamed at the cliffhanger ending. What the FRACK???? How could you do this to me, Suzanne Collins? I did not have the second and third books! How cruel!!!
After I settled down, and my dog stopped staring at me like I was crazy, I told myself that I would just grab the second and third book from the library, knowing that we had both of them in our collection. Good idea in theory, but of course BOTH of the books were signed out. Grr …
Enter my awesome workmate. I had requested the books, and the third one came in on the van run (explanation: one a week we send books to and receive from other libraries), but not the second! I would have to restrain myself from reading the third book until the second came in, which could be up to two weeks! Restraint is not my middle name. I can’t imagine a time I’ve ever successfully used restraint (with the possible exception of hunting down my adopted brother’s biological mother and bludgeoning her to death … I’m not AT ALL bitter). Luckily, I did not have to test my non-existent restraint. My workmate went home for her break, and came back with the second book. Love. Complete and utter love. I may have to bake her cookies, or something.
Anywhoo, that was yesterday. I finished the second book at one o’clock in the morning. I loved it. But I was also feeling a bit worried.
So many parts of the Hunger Games (the woman warrior, the girl protecting her younger sibling, the father that died when she was young, the primitive weapons, the barbaric fighting, the love triangle, the three-novel series - to name a few things) ARE SO MUCH LIKE MY NOVEL! Obviously there are some major differences, but I couldn’t help seeing the parallels. I started overanalyzing, like I always do: “I thought my novel was so original, but then there’s this. And it came first! Who would want to read my novel, when they have this?” Worry, worry, worry.
But then I stopped. “Hang on … this novel has done really well. Everyone loves it. It ends with three. My novel isn’t EXACTLY like The Hunger Games, but it shares a lot of aspects that people like. Maybe this isn’t so bad … maybe this means people will LOVE my novel!” And so, my worry turned sharply to happy. I started thinking about finishing up the editing in my novel, and trying to publish it.
And then the happy turned to nervous. “Oh, jeeze … published. Actually putting my work out there. For people to actually … read.” Sure, I’ve just won an award for one of my fan fictions, but that’s just that: “fan fiction”. Me playing with someone else’s work. It was the first time I’d ever received outside praise for my work, other than people reviewing my stories. The workmate that leant me the book was the first person to read my fan fictions, and then comment on them to my face. She said she loved it, but I nearly died when she told me.
How am I going to cope if I actually get published? I might just have to curl up in a cold, dark corner and die.
But, at some point, I’m going to have to stop hypothesizing about what might happen when I get published. My novel has been finished for a year. I’ve been writing since I was six years old, it has always been my biggest dream. I’m making enough money now that I could consider self-publishing … Oh boy. Even typing those words is making me nervous. At some point, I’m going to have to take that leap. Put my work out there, see what people think. It’s terrifying. It’s enough to make me want to close my laptop, and never type a single word again.
But, I can’t. I’m addicted. Writing it my drug. Reviews are my heroin. Worried. Happy. Nervous. Bouncing between the emotions like a ping pong ball.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll pull out my novel, finish the editing, and send it to my friend to do illustrations. Tomorrow I’ll decide between self publishing, and traditional. Tomorrow I’ll get off my ass, and stop being an “aspiring” writer. Tomorrow.
Today, I have the third Hunger Games novel to finish. And it had better be good.
I’ve been working at the Sylvan Lake library for a few months now. I’ve seen and read several new books that I really liked, hogged the ones that I loved, and complained about the ones that were terrible (sorry, Gerch, but I just can’t take your book seriously. At all.).
Since getting nominated for one of my fan fictions (which I won 1st place for, woot!), I’ve been trying to spend more time writing. I’ve been neglecting my writing since school started, and I started working part-time, and all this bullshit with my adopted brother hit the fan. I have always loved writing, but lately it’s been seeming like a chore - so much easier to just plop in a movie and fall asleep. (I know, I suck.)
Anyways, for some time now, I’ve been hearing about this book trilogy called “The Hunger Games”. My workmates have been talking it up like there’s no tomorrow. I hadn’t decided if I was going to read it, though, until I saw a preview for the upcoming movie. The preview looked awesome enough for me to want to watch the movie. Since I’m the kind of person who hates when books get made into movies - ‘cause they ALWAYS leave too much out/change too much - I decided I’d at least have to read the series first.
Ooh boy … I have not gotten much sleep in the last few days.
I took the first book home from the library on Friday, and started reading it Sunday. I finished it after work Monday, and just about screamed at the cliffhanger ending. What the FRACK???? How could you do this to me, Suzanne Collins? I did not have the second and third books! How cruel!!!
After I settled down, and my dog stopped staring at me like I was crazy, I told myself that I would just grab the second and third book from the library, knowing that we had both of them in our collection. Good idea in theory, but of course BOTH of the books were signed out. Grr …
Enter my awesome workmate. I had requested the books, and the third one came in on the van run (explanation: one a week we send books to and receive from other libraries), but not the second! I would have to restrain myself from reading the third book until the second came in, which could be up to two weeks! Restraint is not my middle name. I can’t imagine a time I’ve ever successfully used restraint (with the possible exception of hunting down my adopted brother’s biological mother and bludgeoning her to death … I’m not AT ALL bitter). Luckily, I did not have to test my non-existent restraint. My workmate went home for her break, and came back with the second book. Love. Complete and utter love. I may have to bake her cookies, or something.
Anywhoo, that was yesterday. I finished the second book at one o’clock in the morning. I loved it. But I was also feeling a bit worried.
So many parts of the Hunger Games (the woman warrior, the girl protecting her younger sibling, the father that died when she was young, the primitive weapons, the barbaric fighting, the love triangle, the three-novel series - to name a few things) ARE SO MUCH LIKE MY NOVEL! Obviously there are some major differences, but I couldn’t help seeing the parallels. I started overanalyzing, like I always do: “I thought my novel was so original, but then there’s this. And it came first! Who would want to read my novel, when they have this?” Worry, worry, worry.
But then I stopped. “Hang on … this novel has done really well. Everyone loves it. It ends with three. My novel isn’t EXACTLY like The Hunger Games, but it shares a lot of aspects that people like. Maybe this isn’t so bad … maybe this means people will LOVE my novel!” And so, my worry turned sharply to happy. I started thinking about finishing up the editing in my novel, and trying to publish it.
And then the happy turned to nervous. “Oh, jeeze … published. Actually putting my work out there. For people to actually … read.” Sure, I’ve just won an award for one of my fan fictions, but that’s just that: “fan fiction”. Me playing with someone else’s work. It was the first time I’d ever received outside praise for my work, other than people reviewing my stories. The workmate that leant me the book was the first person to read my fan fictions, and then comment on them to my face. She said she loved it, but I nearly died when she told me.
How am I going to cope if I actually get published? I might just have to curl up in a cold, dark corner and die.
But, at some point, I’m going to have to stop hypothesizing about what might happen when I get published. My novel has been finished for a year. I’ve been writing since I was six years old, it has always been my biggest dream. I’m making enough money now that I could consider self-publishing … Oh boy. Even typing those words is making me nervous. At some point, I’m going to have to take that leap. Put my work out there, see what people think. It’s terrifying. It’s enough to make me want to close my laptop, and never type a single word again.
But, I can’t. I’m addicted. Writing it my drug. Reviews are my heroin. Worried. Happy. Nervous. Bouncing between the emotions like a ping pong ball.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll pull out my novel, finish the editing, and send it to my friend to do illustrations. Tomorrow I’ll decide between self publishing, and traditional. Tomorrow I’ll get off my ass, and stop being an “aspiring” writer. Tomorrow.
Today, I have the third Hunger Games novel to finish. And it had better be good.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Progress Report for the Post-Secondary Education of Corrie Brown
This was an assignment for my COMM class that I decided to post as a blog. Hopefully I don't come off as too bitter ...
Three short years ago, I enrolled in my first semester of college; four on-campus classes, and one practicum. I was two years out of high school, and the options were simple: get a job, or go to school. I chose the lesser of two evils.
While initially preferring to take Psychology, I was told that I did not have the pre-requisites to enter the degree program. After following shoddy advice from a home economics teacher (lesson learned), I chose to switch out of Pure Math and into Applied Math, since I would only require Math 20 - of any kind - to graduate. I completed Applied Math 20, and graduated high school on schedule. Two years later, I was informed that to get a degree in Psychology, I would need Pure Math 30 on my transcripts; there being a statistics course in the degree program, after all. That was awesome …
Giving up my dream - temporarily - of Psychology, I decided to switch to Early Learning and Child Care. It was only a two-year program, and in that time I could upgrade my math. Sounds like a plan, right?
I applied for my funding, nervous about the cost of tuition and books, and was pleasantly surprised when I was approved for $3000.00 per semester. After being forced to quit my lovely cashier’s job at Walmart for having excessive Strep Throat, Candida, and an overall lack of desire to be there, 3000 bucks for three months of school sounded pretty awesome. Paying off student loans? I’d just deal with that later.
First day of class came and went, leaving me feeling a little less nervous after discovering that my teacher was an old classmate’s mom. I made a few friends, won a gift certificate door prize, and went home with a cheery “First Day of College” poster. I wasn’t crazy about my actual classes, but college seemed fun so far.
My classes seemed relatively easy, but I was concerned about my practicum. Two days a week with some twenty-odd kids I’d never met? A tad nerve-wracking. Having to have an activity ready to go, for my very first day? Terrifying. I chose to defer my practicum, wanting to get a little knowledge under my belt before confronting the mass of snotty noses and “why” questions. Yet another decision I ended up regretting, but we’ll get to that later.
I dropped one class by the add-drop date, though I should have dropped two. Unfortunately, with it being my first semester of college, I wasn’t acquainted with the “proper channels”, so to speak. We had recently moved out to Sylvan Lake, and even though we’d filled out our Change of Address forms, some of our mail was still going to our old address. I lost two tax credit checks, as well as my official High School Transcripts. I was told by the registrars that I only needed to take COMM 150 if I didn’t have a mark above 60 in English 30. Once they got my transcripts, I would be taken out of the class. … Their exact words: “I would be taken out of the class”. To a first-year college student, that meant they would sort it all out once they got my transcripts. I didn’t attend a single COMM 150 class, because I knew my English 30-1 grade was well above 60. It was over a year later that I discovered I was never taken out of COMM 150, and as a result, had an F on my college transcripts. I was less than pleased, but that was only the beginning.
After completing my first year of Early Learning and Child Care - and discovering that my first practicum was certainly nothing to fear - I was genuinely excited about the turn my life was taking. It turned out I was actually kind of awesome at taking care of/playing with children. It’s a lot easier hearing things like “is there a baby in your belly?” and “do you have chicken pox?” from children, than it is from your peers. I loved that children had no censor button; I loved their limitless curiosity about the world around them.
I knew that I would have to complete a couple first year courses before I could receive my certificate - my second practicum, as well as Guiding Behavior (ELCC 217). At our year-end pizza party, I made time to speak to the Chair of my program about doing some spring courses. That was when I got the bombshell about my COMM course. “There seems to be a problem with your transcripts, Corrie,” she told me. “You don’t have a COMM course completed.” My response was simply, “I don’t need to take COMM 150, I had well over 60 in English 30.” She stared at me like I was an alien. “Yes, but you still need to have a COMM course to complete your first year. It’s part of the program.” My reaction was not, shall we say, admirable. Quite frankly, I blew a gasket. I yelled and screamed, and all-but tore my hair out. “Are you sh--ing me? Why the hell can’t anyone at this college give me a straight f---ing answer? Everyone has two different sets of information, how the hell am I expected to know which way is up!” I went on and on. I was told that I could take a COMM course in the spring, and be ready to start my second year in the fall. I was annoyed - to say the least - but I agreed.
I decided to take COMM 250 - I didn’t need to learn basic grammar and sentence structure, I’d done that in primary school. COMM 250 was a nice break from the rest of my studies. It seemed as though I was one of the few students in the class who knew the difference between “you’re” and “your”. Our teacher took us to online postings and dating sites, where we mocked the poster’s horrible spelling and grammar. I was in heaven. I completed my second practicum in the spring, and got the required COMM course on my transcripts. Everything seemed to be on schedule.
Is anything ever that easy?
Once our second year started up, I had to have a discussion with the new Chair. Yes, I’d completed my second practicum, and yes, I’d completed my COMM course, but I still had Guiding Behavior 217 to complete. It was against protocol to be enrolled in any second-year courses when the first-year courses weren’t completed. I managed to restrain my temper tantrum this time, but just barely. After some fist-and-jaw clenching, I worked it out with the Chairperson that I would defer my practicum and drop one second-year class, while still maintaining my three-course requirement for a full-time student loan. I was informed that I would be on something akin to academic probation, where the Chairperson and my teachers would be keeping an eye on my progress in their classes, and once the withdrawal date came close, they would decide if my grades were such that I could continue regularly, or if I would need to withdraw from my classes. This seemed to be reasonable, until I found out a student in a similar situation as me was allowed to take her practicum, as well as all of her second-year courses.
I completed all of my courses for the semester - successfully - and was ready to complete my last course and practicum in the Fall 2011 semester. I discovered that I could take my last class online, was assured that I would get a practicum in Sylvan Lake, and was finally enrolled in psychology. (Insert next rant here: I also discovered when registering for my third-year classes, that I didn’t actually need Pure Math 30 at the start of my psychology courses, after all. I could upgrade as I went. Two years later, I get this information. Isn’t that awesome?) Anyway, I was registered and ready to go for the semester, when I heard back from my local library. I had applied for a job there, and they wanted to interview me. I was ecstatic - first because it was one of my childhood dream jobs, and also because I hadn’t had a real job since Walmart - and eagerly attended the interview. I got the job a few days later. All that was left was to work out my schedule. They were willing to work around my school schedule, I just hoped that my practicum was as well.
Enter the next hurdle in my career as a student. In order to be in my final practicum, I would need to commit to Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, from 8:00 am to 4:00 pm. As understanding as the library was, they weren’t willing to be that flexible with my schedule. Three years down the road, and I was faced with the same decision once again: get a job, or go to school. This time, though, I wanted both.
In the end, it was more important for me to be working, than it was to complete my last practicum. I dropped the practicum and registered for COMM 150 - ready to wipe that ridiculous F off my transcripts - so that I could keep my three-course requirement for a full-time loan. Now it’s November, and the semester is just about over.
I’ve come a long way since my first semester at Red Deer College. I’ve learned not to trust anything unless I’ve heard it from at least three different “professionals”, I’ve learned that I have a fierce love for children, and that part-time schooling is definitely the way to go. Most of all, I’ve found my once-lost love for education. Will my built-up loans be worth it in the end? I don’t know. Right now, I’m loving it, and that’s all that matters.
Three short years ago, I enrolled in my first semester of college; four on-campus classes, and one practicum. I was two years out of high school, and the options were simple: get a job, or go to school. I chose the lesser of two evils.
While initially preferring to take Psychology, I was told that I did not have the pre-requisites to enter the degree program. After following shoddy advice from a home economics teacher (lesson learned), I chose to switch out of Pure Math and into Applied Math, since I would only require Math 20 - of any kind - to graduate. I completed Applied Math 20, and graduated high school on schedule. Two years later, I was informed that to get a degree in Psychology, I would need Pure Math 30 on my transcripts; there being a statistics course in the degree program, after all. That was awesome …
Giving up my dream - temporarily - of Psychology, I decided to switch to Early Learning and Child Care. It was only a two-year program, and in that time I could upgrade my math. Sounds like a plan, right?
I applied for my funding, nervous about the cost of tuition and books, and was pleasantly surprised when I was approved for $3000.00 per semester. After being forced to quit my lovely cashier’s job at Walmart for having excessive Strep Throat, Candida, and an overall lack of desire to be there, 3000 bucks for three months of school sounded pretty awesome. Paying off student loans? I’d just deal with that later.
First day of class came and went, leaving me feeling a little less nervous after discovering that my teacher was an old classmate’s mom. I made a few friends, won a gift certificate door prize, and went home with a cheery “First Day of College” poster. I wasn’t crazy about my actual classes, but college seemed fun so far.
My classes seemed relatively easy, but I was concerned about my practicum. Two days a week with some twenty-odd kids I’d never met? A tad nerve-wracking. Having to have an activity ready to go, for my very first day? Terrifying. I chose to defer my practicum, wanting to get a little knowledge under my belt before confronting the mass of snotty noses and “why” questions. Yet another decision I ended up regretting, but we’ll get to that later.
I dropped one class by the add-drop date, though I should have dropped two. Unfortunately, with it being my first semester of college, I wasn’t acquainted with the “proper channels”, so to speak. We had recently moved out to Sylvan Lake, and even though we’d filled out our Change of Address forms, some of our mail was still going to our old address. I lost two tax credit checks, as well as my official High School Transcripts. I was told by the registrars that I only needed to take COMM 150 if I didn’t have a mark above 60 in English 30. Once they got my transcripts, I would be taken out of the class. … Their exact words: “I would be taken out of the class”. To a first-year college student, that meant they would sort it all out once they got my transcripts. I didn’t attend a single COMM 150 class, because I knew my English 30-1 grade was well above 60. It was over a year later that I discovered I was never taken out of COMM 150, and as a result, had an F on my college transcripts. I was less than pleased, but that was only the beginning.
After completing my first year of Early Learning and Child Care - and discovering that my first practicum was certainly nothing to fear - I was genuinely excited about the turn my life was taking. It turned out I was actually kind of awesome at taking care of/playing with children. It’s a lot easier hearing things like “is there a baby in your belly?” and “do you have chicken pox?” from children, than it is from your peers. I loved that children had no censor button; I loved their limitless curiosity about the world around them.
I knew that I would have to complete a couple first year courses before I could receive my certificate - my second practicum, as well as Guiding Behavior (ELCC 217). At our year-end pizza party, I made time to speak to the Chair of my program about doing some spring courses. That was when I got the bombshell about my COMM course. “There seems to be a problem with your transcripts, Corrie,” she told me. “You don’t have a COMM course completed.” My response was simply, “I don’t need to take COMM 150, I had well over 60 in English 30.” She stared at me like I was an alien. “Yes, but you still need to have a COMM course to complete your first year. It’s part of the program.” My reaction was not, shall we say, admirable. Quite frankly, I blew a gasket. I yelled and screamed, and all-but tore my hair out. “Are you sh--ing me? Why the hell can’t anyone at this college give me a straight f---ing answer? Everyone has two different sets of information, how the hell am I expected to know which way is up!” I went on and on. I was told that I could take a COMM course in the spring, and be ready to start my second year in the fall. I was annoyed - to say the least - but I agreed.
I decided to take COMM 250 - I didn’t need to learn basic grammar and sentence structure, I’d done that in primary school. COMM 250 was a nice break from the rest of my studies. It seemed as though I was one of the few students in the class who knew the difference between “you’re” and “your”. Our teacher took us to online postings and dating sites, where we mocked the poster’s horrible spelling and grammar. I was in heaven. I completed my second practicum in the spring, and got the required COMM course on my transcripts. Everything seemed to be on schedule.
Is anything ever that easy?
Once our second year started up, I had to have a discussion with the new Chair. Yes, I’d completed my second practicum, and yes, I’d completed my COMM course, but I still had Guiding Behavior 217 to complete. It was against protocol to be enrolled in any second-year courses when the first-year courses weren’t completed. I managed to restrain my temper tantrum this time, but just barely. After some fist-and-jaw clenching, I worked it out with the Chairperson that I would defer my practicum and drop one second-year class, while still maintaining my three-course requirement for a full-time student loan. I was informed that I would be on something akin to academic probation, where the Chairperson and my teachers would be keeping an eye on my progress in their classes, and once the withdrawal date came close, they would decide if my grades were such that I could continue regularly, or if I would need to withdraw from my classes. This seemed to be reasonable, until I found out a student in a similar situation as me was allowed to take her practicum, as well as all of her second-year courses.
I completed all of my courses for the semester - successfully - and was ready to complete my last course and practicum in the Fall 2011 semester. I discovered that I could take my last class online, was assured that I would get a practicum in Sylvan Lake, and was finally enrolled in psychology. (Insert next rant here: I also discovered when registering for my third-year classes, that I didn’t actually need Pure Math 30 at the start of my psychology courses, after all. I could upgrade as I went. Two years later, I get this information. Isn’t that awesome?) Anyway, I was registered and ready to go for the semester, when I heard back from my local library. I had applied for a job there, and they wanted to interview me. I was ecstatic - first because it was one of my childhood dream jobs, and also because I hadn’t had a real job since Walmart - and eagerly attended the interview. I got the job a few days later. All that was left was to work out my schedule. They were willing to work around my school schedule, I just hoped that my practicum was as well.
Enter the next hurdle in my career as a student. In order to be in my final practicum, I would need to commit to Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, from 8:00 am to 4:00 pm. As understanding as the library was, they weren’t willing to be that flexible with my schedule. Three years down the road, and I was faced with the same decision once again: get a job, or go to school. This time, though, I wanted both.
In the end, it was more important for me to be working, than it was to complete my last practicum. I dropped the practicum and registered for COMM 150 - ready to wipe that ridiculous F off my transcripts - so that I could keep my three-course requirement for a full-time loan. Now it’s November, and the semester is just about over.
I’ve come a long way since my first semester at Red Deer College. I’ve learned not to trust anything unless I’ve heard it from at least three different “professionals”, I’ve learned that I have a fierce love for children, and that part-time schooling is definitely the way to go. Most of all, I’ve found my once-lost love for education. Will my built-up loans be worth it in the end? I don’t know. Right now, I’m loving it, and that’s all that matters.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
The Waiting Game
I am not a patient person. I am sure that some brilliant scientist could look at scans of my brain and say, “See this this area right here? This is where your patience button should be. You don’t have one.” I am a busy person. While this may not be reflected in my body mass index, I am constantly doing something. Writing, talking, doing online things, watching a movie, working, reading, researching, ranting, etc, etc, etc. I’m not even still when I’m sleeping. As many a scattered teddy bear could tell you, I run marathons in my sleep. Have I accurately described how patient I am not? I hope so.
Today my mother went to court. She had a custody hearing to determine the fate of my adopted brother - a boy who was tragically and irreparably damaged by his birth mother; a boy who has been diagnosed with sociopath tendencies; a boy who is violent and aggressive towards everyone that he meets; a boy who has done everything in his power to destroy my mother. Today my mother went to court to tell her side of the story. She went to tell them that she did not, in fact, abuse my brother. She had case notes, she had reports from aids and one-to-one workers, she had personal references and statements attesting to her credibility as a foster parent. She went into court ready to fight for not only her reputation as a mother, but also to fight for the well-being of her adopted son.
I had a Psych class early this morning, and then work at 11:00 am. I wished my mother luck for the hearing, and told her to text me when she knew what the outcome was. I knew that it would be at least 6 hours until she knew anything. And so, I waited. Work kept me busy. I called in overdue books, I made cards for a grade 3 class coming in for a field trip, I mended books, made new spine labels, sleeved and shelved movies and CDs, sent books and movies into transit, and somewhere in there found the time to run home and grab a movie for a co-worker.
At the end of my shift, I checked my text messages. The judged approved the custody order in favor of my mom, but held it over until March. My brother’s lawyer has completely bought into his lies about my mother, and is convinced that she is a danger to him. She wants a permanent guardianship order, and wants to deny my mother access to him indefinitely. She didn’t get what she wanted today, and that makes me smile. Today, my damaged, deceitful, sociopathic brother did not get his way. But, this is just the beginning.
My mother still has to go to court to prove that she did not abuse the other foster boy - the other foster boy who has waited for my mother to visit him for a year; the foster boy who wasn’t told that it wasn’t her decision to stop coming to see him; the foster boy who loved my mother to pieces, and couldn’t deal with the disappointment of finally finding out that she was never coming back for him; the foster boy who made up a story about my mother whipping him, because he was mad at her. My mother still has to go to court and prove that two boys - who were damaged by their birth mothers, and have a history of violence, aggression, and false accusations - are lying about her. Unrepresented.
And there’s nothing I can do about it. For now.
This is all I can do. I can rant on my blog about the injustice of the world. I can write letters that attest to my mother’s stellar record as a foster parent, and the abuse she’s suffered at the hands of these boys. I am a writer. This is how I vent.
Four more days I have to wait. In four days, my mother will attempt to restore her reputation, and get back her foster care license.
In the meantime, I’ve been writing a book. I’ve been writing a book detailing my mother’s hardships, triumphs, failures, and successes as a parent/foster parent. I have been writing a book that, in four days time, I will decide if I am going to publish.
My mother has been used and abused by Children’s Services, and if they drive this final nail into her coffin, I will publish this book, and I will hold nothing back. People need to know the risks of becoming a foster parent. People need to know the risks of putting their faith in a system that does not have their back in the long run. People need to hear my mother’s story, and know the damage that false accusations can cause; the damage that a thirteen-year old boy with no morals can cause.
Four more days. Doesn’t seem like that long, does it? Unless of course you’re in this position, and the future of someone you love will be decided in that short time.
How did it all come to this? What would you do? If this was your mother, and you knew these boys were lying, and you knew the case workers involved were leaving your mother out to dry, and knew that everything hinged on this one hearing … what would you do?
I am not a drinker, for several reasons. Alcohol heats me up, and I have a high enough body temperature as it is; I do not like the taste of alcohol, with the possible exception of vodka, but once again, it heats me up too much; I can get natural highs - I am generally a very excited, giddy, fun-loving person. I have never needed alcohol to have a good time. Also, alcohol is a depressant, so logically speaking, it can’t make you happy. Even with all of these facts, I could really use a drink. I would love to just slumber my way through these next four days, and not be so anxious and neurotic the whole time. Even as I’m sitting here writing this blog, my feet are bobbing on the bed, and my hands are tapping the keyboard impatiently.
Patience is not my virtue. Nor is it a virtue of my mother’s. I don’t know how she’s keeping it together, but somehow she is. If it were me, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from screaming at these lawyers and case workers. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from wringing their necks at their sheer stupidity. This is why I’m not the foster parent …
It’s times like these, I really wish I believed in a higher power. I wish that I could believe that someone was watching out for us. That good people are rewarded for their hard work and sacrifices, and bad people never prosper from their evil actions. I haven’t prayed since I was eleven years old, but I wish that I could pray to someone. I wish that I could do something as simple as get down on my knees, do a dozen Hail Mary’s, wish upon a star, blow out a candle, and have everything work out perfectly.
Why can’t life be like that? Why do good people always have to suffer? Why the hell can’t time magically move forward, and save me from this insufferable waiting game? Why, why, why, why, WHY?
Today my mother went to court. She had a custody hearing to determine the fate of my adopted brother - a boy who was tragically and irreparably damaged by his birth mother; a boy who has been diagnosed with sociopath tendencies; a boy who is violent and aggressive towards everyone that he meets; a boy who has done everything in his power to destroy my mother. Today my mother went to court to tell her side of the story. She went to tell them that she did not, in fact, abuse my brother. She had case notes, she had reports from aids and one-to-one workers, she had personal references and statements attesting to her credibility as a foster parent. She went into court ready to fight for not only her reputation as a mother, but also to fight for the well-being of her adopted son.
I had a Psych class early this morning, and then work at 11:00 am. I wished my mother luck for the hearing, and told her to text me when she knew what the outcome was. I knew that it would be at least 6 hours until she knew anything. And so, I waited. Work kept me busy. I called in overdue books, I made cards for a grade 3 class coming in for a field trip, I mended books, made new spine labels, sleeved and shelved movies and CDs, sent books and movies into transit, and somewhere in there found the time to run home and grab a movie for a co-worker.
At the end of my shift, I checked my text messages. The judged approved the custody order in favor of my mom, but held it over until March. My brother’s lawyer has completely bought into his lies about my mother, and is convinced that she is a danger to him. She wants a permanent guardianship order, and wants to deny my mother access to him indefinitely. She didn’t get what she wanted today, and that makes me smile. Today, my damaged, deceitful, sociopathic brother did not get his way. But, this is just the beginning.
My mother still has to go to court to prove that she did not abuse the other foster boy - the other foster boy who has waited for my mother to visit him for a year; the foster boy who wasn’t told that it wasn’t her decision to stop coming to see him; the foster boy who loved my mother to pieces, and couldn’t deal with the disappointment of finally finding out that she was never coming back for him; the foster boy who made up a story about my mother whipping him, because he was mad at her. My mother still has to go to court and prove that two boys - who were damaged by their birth mothers, and have a history of violence, aggression, and false accusations - are lying about her. Unrepresented.
And there’s nothing I can do about it. For now.
This is all I can do. I can rant on my blog about the injustice of the world. I can write letters that attest to my mother’s stellar record as a foster parent, and the abuse she’s suffered at the hands of these boys. I am a writer. This is how I vent.
Four more days I have to wait. In four days, my mother will attempt to restore her reputation, and get back her foster care license.
In the meantime, I’ve been writing a book. I’ve been writing a book detailing my mother’s hardships, triumphs, failures, and successes as a parent/foster parent. I have been writing a book that, in four days time, I will decide if I am going to publish.
My mother has been used and abused by Children’s Services, and if they drive this final nail into her coffin, I will publish this book, and I will hold nothing back. People need to know the risks of becoming a foster parent. People need to know the risks of putting their faith in a system that does not have their back in the long run. People need to hear my mother’s story, and know the damage that false accusations can cause; the damage that a thirteen-year old boy with no morals can cause.
Four more days. Doesn’t seem like that long, does it? Unless of course you’re in this position, and the future of someone you love will be decided in that short time.
How did it all come to this? What would you do? If this was your mother, and you knew these boys were lying, and you knew the case workers involved were leaving your mother out to dry, and knew that everything hinged on this one hearing … what would you do?
I am not a drinker, for several reasons. Alcohol heats me up, and I have a high enough body temperature as it is; I do not like the taste of alcohol, with the possible exception of vodka, but once again, it heats me up too much; I can get natural highs - I am generally a very excited, giddy, fun-loving person. I have never needed alcohol to have a good time. Also, alcohol is a depressant, so logically speaking, it can’t make you happy. Even with all of these facts, I could really use a drink. I would love to just slumber my way through these next four days, and not be so anxious and neurotic the whole time. Even as I’m sitting here writing this blog, my feet are bobbing on the bed, and my hands are tapping the keyboard impatiently.
Patience is not my virtue. Nor is it a virtue of my mother’s. I don’t know how she’s keeping it together, but somehow she is. If it were me, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from screaming at these lawyers and case workers. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from wringing their necks at their sheer stupidity. This is why I’m not the foster parent …
It’s times like these, I really wish I believed in a higher power. I wish that I could believe that someone was watching out for us. That good people are rewarded for their hard work and sacrifices, and bad people never prosper from their evil actions. I haven’t prayed since I was eleven years old, but I wish that I could pray to someone. I wish that I could do something as simple as get down on my knees, do a dozen Hail Mary’s, wish upon a star, blow out a candle, and have everything work out perfectly.
Why can’t life be like that? Why do good people always have to suffer? Why the hell can’t time magically move forward, and save me from this insufferable waiting game? Why, why, why, why, WHY?
Sunday, September 25, 2011
On Growing Up: Make It Stop
I am going to be 22 in 3 months. To a senior citizen, that might seem blissfully young. To a pre-teen, that might seem tragically old. To me, it's just ... twenty-two. Another year gone by.
In the last nine months, I have finished my second year of college, sent our adorable foster twins to a wonderful new family, finished my first novel, watched my adopted brother get shifted from one home to another, gained about twenty pounds, helped my sister out with her day home, welcomed two new foster kids into our home, gone camping with my family, made it through the tenth anniversary of my best friend's death, supported my mother through her dear friend's passing, got a job at my local library, and watched as two boys who we opened our home and hearts to destroyed my mother's life.
A month ago, my mother was a well-respected, awe-inspiring foster mother; a life that I was thrilled to be a part of. Now they're telling her she's not fit to be a foster parent, because they took the word of a sad boy and a sociopath over hers.
Twenty-two years old, in just three short months.
You know what I thought would be going on in my life when I turned twenty-two? I thought I would graduate from RDC with a diploma in Early Learning and Child Care, be living in a cheap apartment or townhouse that allowed pets, and be working in a day care or preschool, while volunteering at the women's shelter. I thought I would be dancing around my home to blaring music, making appointments for getting tattoos while watching the latest romantic comedy on TV. I thought I would be spending all of my downtime on my computer, writing fanfic and dreaming of publishing my first novel.
You know what I'll probably be doing when I turn twenty-two? The same thing I'm doing right now: trying to get myself and my mother through the next day.
Tonight (or technically last night, since it's after 12:00 am) was my day off of work, and since I got paid yesterday, I decided that me and mum would go do some shopping, go see a movie ... keep our mind off of things. I found some good work shirts, bought some movies and books and a really nice bookshelf at Value Village, and then went to Carnival. The first movie we watched was Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 2.
When the first Harry Potter book came out, I was six years old. My mother read me each chapter as she recovered from our car accident, making me fall in love with each character, desperate for more. She fostered my love of reading and writing.
When I was six years old, I had absolutely no interest in growing up. I didn't care much for an adult's perspective of life. To me, hard work was sitting still in my desk and not mouthing off my teachers. When I was six, I thought five dollars made me rich, and I couldn't wait to spend it all at the convenience store down the street. I couldn't comprehend the hardships that my mother had to endure, raising myself and my brother by herself.
I was not a pleasant child. Sure, I had my good moods. I had fun, I smiled, I made other people laugh. But, I could also pull a Jekyll/Hyde swap faster than you could blink. I don't know how my mother managed to raise us and not lose her sanity, but somehow she managed.
In August of 2001, when I was eleven years old, my dog became very sick. He had cancer. He was in a lot of pain. I didn't really comprehend what cancer was back then, even thought my Aunt had died of lung cancer. All I knew of cancer back then was that my Auntie Marion smoked cigarettes, and then she died. When the vet told us George had cancer, I blamed my mum. I don't believe I ever told her that ... instead, I secretly hated her for it, because she smoked. 1 + 1 = 2 back then, so obviously she must have been to blame, right? George was in a lot of pain, but I wasn't ready to let him go. So, what did my mum do? She told me that she was going to make an appointment for him with the vet. She said they would be back. She had my coach and mentor stay with me, who encouraged me to say goodbye to my dog. I didn't understand, so I didn't say goodbye. I thought I would see him again. When my mum came home without George, I hated her for it. I didn't see that she had saved me the trauma of watching my dog be "put to sleep". She held me while I cried, and gave me my space when I needed it. She gave my Baby George the relief that he needed when I couldn't, and I never thanked her for it.
When I was eleven years old, the Winter before my twelfth birthday, we had to leave my hometown for my mom's work. There was nothing left for her in Brooks, but she had a job down in Red Deer. I was not happy about it. I told her that I hated her, that she was ruining my life. I thought the world would end if I couldn't see my friends every day, if I had to leave the house I'd lived in nearly my whole life. I blamed her for everything back then, because I was a child and I was mad. I dug my heels in. How did my mother respond? She worked it out so that I could stay on my Ringette team, and come back for games on the weekend. A three-hour drive almost every weekend. I don't know how much money that she spent on gas so that I could spend a couple hours a week with friends that I had grown up with. And when my school in Innisfail went on strike for three weeks, she worked it out so that I could go back to Brooks and take my old classes for a little while. I was thrilled to be back with my friends. I don't know that I ever sincerely said thank you. I didn't care about the sacrifices she was making for me, all I cared about was that I was getting what I wanted.
Hard work for me back then was keeping in shape for ringette. Hard work back then was getting Cs in school and not picking fights on the bus - I didn't succeed in either very often. Growing up, then? What a stupid notion.
When I was seventeen years old, I graduated from high school. My mother rented a red, mustang convertible for me. I secretly pouted that it wasn't silver, but loved it all the same. I had a wonderful grad, laughed with my friends, and used my absentee father's grad ticket to get a friend of mine into the grad dinner with us. My favorite aunt and uncle got to see me graduate, my mother and sister smiled and cried, and I didn't even trip walking down the aisle. It was a wonderful evening. I danced with the boy who would, a mere four years later, destroy my mother's life, and didn't even get a picture with my mother to commemorate the evening. She never complained.
When I was nineteen, we had to find another place to live. Our landlord wasn't going to renew our lease, and nowhere in Red Deer that we could afford would allow pets. It was our second move in two years. My mother had lost her own dog and favorite companion in that house. Though it probably broke her heart to say it, she suggested that we send my dog, Copper, to live with someone else for a while, until we could get back on our feet and find a place that would allow pets. I refused. I screamed. I told her that if Copper went, I went. I told her that I would move in with my brother, and never speak to her again. What did she do? She agreed to look outside of Red Deer, and let me pick a house in Sylvan that allowed pets. I never thanked her.
When I was twenty-years old, our 9-year old foster boy was taken out of our home. He was violently aggressive, would constantly abuse my mother, threaten other children in our home and in our lives, would break his and our property, and scream bloody murder if you so much as looked at him the wrong way. My mother put her heart and soul into making him feel loved and secure, and "they" deemed that our home was not safe for him. We had one day's notice that they were taking him. We were allowed to visit him for a couple months before they cut off all contact with him.
The hardest thing about my life back then? Re-alphabetizing my movies, working out time to go see movies with my friends, and figuring out a schedule to balance out all my favorite TV shows.
Seven months ago, my adopted brother was sent to a residential treatment home that was supposed to work a program around his behavior. He is a boy diagnosed with ADHD, ODD, undiagnosed FASD and Shaken Baby Syndrome. He is a sociopath. He destroys everything in his life that he touches.
Two months ago, hard work for me was watching our two and three-year old foster girls while my mother drove back and forth from Calgary and Sylvan to visit my brother, and try to assist in his treatment.
There was no treatment going on. He was shuffled from house to house, never getting proper supervision, never mind treatment. He was constantly going awol, verbally and physically abusing other youth and staff in the programs, running around downtown Calgary in the middle of the night, coming back boasting about drinking alcohol, with hickeys on his neck. A thirteen-year old, sociopathic boy, at-risk to be a sexual offender is wandering around Calgary in the middle of the night, and coming back with hickeys. The staff at the program had little to say for their lack of action, and my mother was growing evermore frustrated with the situation. But, what could she do? It wasn't safe for him to come home, and he was getting worse where he was. Rock, hard place, etc, etc.
Life sucked, but it was about to get a hell of a lot worse.
A little less than three weeks ago, the foster boy made an allegation against my mother. The boy who kicked and punched and bit and spat on and screamed at my mother told his social worker that my mother whipped him with a belt. The social worker believed it. She went to my adopted brother, who had always threatened that he was going to destroy my mother. He's told her for years that he's going to tell people that she's beating him up so that he can go back to his biological mother - the same woman who drank and did drugs while she was pregnant with him; the same woman who shook him when he was a baby; the same woman who couldn't be bothered to get out of bed to feed, dress, and care for her children; the same woman who faked a brain injury when it suited her; the same woman who nearly slept through her son trying to burn down their house with her in it; the same woman who let her son run back into a burning building to save his cat. My adopted brother told the social worker that my mother indeed whipped him with a belt.
My mother got paid $1.08 an hour to be a foster parent. She received little-to-no support from Children's Services, went through hell and back to adopt and care for my brother, did everything in her power to see that he got the help that he needed, even when her family members told her that it was time to give up - something she doesn't know how to do.
Children's Services has to take every single allegation seriously. I understand that. They took our two foster girls when they started their investigation two weeks ago. They said they'd be gone for a few days. My mother stopped getting paid as a foster parent, and they cut off her Child Tax Credit. None of the people in a position to help her at Children's Services were allowed to talk to her. My sister reached out to people who would know what to do, and told her to get a lawyer. Could you afford a lawyer on $1.08/hour? She got in touch with Legal Aid, who told her that she doesn't qualify, because she makes too much money. She made too much money because she could pay all of her bills. She paid all of her bills because I loaned her $440.00. She explained this to them, and still they told her they couldn't help her. My mother had to face this allegation with no legal representation, and no help from anyone in a position of authority within Children's Services.
Last month, my biggest priority was spending my student loan money, and not missing the season finale of True Blood. Since then, I've gotten a job at my local library, dropped my practicum so that I could keep that job, and spent every free moment trying to stave off my mother's depression.
On Friday, they finished their investigation.
Let me make one thing perfectly clear: My mother is not perfect. No one is. You show me a perfect person, and I'll show you an amazing con artist. While she is not perfect, my mother is not violent. She has never, and would never whip a child. We were confident that they would give her a slap on the wrist for a few spanking incidents, and everything would be fine. How could they take the word of two violently aggressive boys over hers?
We were wrong. The boy who promised to destroy my mother, so that he could go back to his birth mother who broke him, did exactly as he promised. They've decided she can no longer be a foster parent. My mother gave up her entire life to care for my brother, and other children like him. My mother, who has supported herself, myself, and every child in her house on a measly $1.08/hour, has been told that she can no longer be a foster parent.
I've never really had to grow up. Sure, I've been mature for my age for a long time, but mature for my age isn't exactly "mature". I don't drink, I don't do drugs, I don't sleep around, I don't go out partying. I make good grades, I stay out of trouble, and I don't waste my time on people who would only bring me down in the long run. I met a woman recently who couldn't believe that I was only 21, because I seemed so much more mature and "together" than that.
I don't want to be mature. I don't want to be a grown up. I want to yell and scream and break things. I want to storm up to Children's Services and bitch-slap them until they come to their senses. I want to walk up to my adopted brother's biological mother and rip her heart out of her chest for the pain she's caused my family.
Unfortunately, I can't do that. Every waking minute that isn't spent at school or work is being spent on keeping my mother from spiraling into depression.
I love my brother with all of my heart. I want him to get better. I want to wrap my arms around him and squeeze all of the hate and sickness out of him. I love him, but if I knew seven years ago that he was going to do this to my mother, I would have told her to let someone else take him in. Let someone else suffer at his hands ... she's my mother, and she doesn't deserve this.
When we walked into the movie theatre tonight, my mother looked at the Harry Potter poster and said, "Can you believe it's been that long? We read the first book when you were six years old."
Six years old, and my biggest troubles were learning how to skate, and earning enough allowance to buy 1-cent candies at the corner store.
How did we get here? More importantly, how do I make it stop?
In the last nine months, I have finished my second year of college, sent our adorable foster twins to a wonderful new family, finished my first novel, watched my adopted brother get shifted from one home to another, gained about twenty pounds, helped my sister out with her day home, welcomed two new foster kids into our home, gone camping with my family, made it through the tenth anniversary of my best friend's death, supported my mother through her dear friend's passing, got a job at my local library, and watched as two boys who we opened our home and hearts to destroyed my mother's life.
A month ago, my mother was a well-respected, awe-inspiring foster mother; a life that I was thrilled to be a part of. Now they're telling her she's not fit to be a foster parent, because they took the word of a sad boy and a sociopath over hers.
Twenty-two years old, in just three short months.
You know what I thought would be going on in my life when I turned twenty-two? I thought I would graduate from RDC with a diploma in Early Learning and Child Care, be living in a cheap apartment or townhouse that allowed pets, and be working in a day care or preschool, while volunteering at the women's shelter. I thought I would be dancing around my home to blaring music, making appointments for getting tattoos while watching the latest romantic comedy on TV. I thought I would be spending all of my downtime on my computer, writing fanfic and dreaming of publishing my first novel.
You know what I'll probably be doing when I turn twenty-two? The same thing I'm doing right now: trying to get myself and my mother through the next day.
Tonight (or technically last night, since it's after 12:00 am) was my day off of work, and since I got paid yesterday, I decided that me and mum would go do some shopping, go see a movie ... keep our mind off of things. I found some good work shirts, bought some movies and books and a really nice bookshelf at Value Village, and then went to Carnival. The first movie we watched was Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 2.
When the first Harry Potter book came out, I was six years old. My mother read me each chapter as she recovered from our car accident, making me fall in love with each character, desperate for more. She fostered my love of reading and writing.
When I was six years old, I had absolutely no interest in growing up. I didn't care much for an adult's perspective of life. To me, hard work was sitting still in my desk and not mouthing off my teachers. When I was six, I thought five dollars made me rich, and I couldn't wait to spend it all at the convenience store down the street. I couldn't comprehend the hardships that my mother had to endure, raising myself and my brother by herself.
I was not a pleasant child. Sure, I had my good moods. I had fun, I smiled, I made other people laugh. But, I could also pull a Jekyll/Hyde swap faster than you could blink. I don't know how my mother managed to raise us and not lose her sanity, but somehow she managed.
In August of 2001, when I was eleven years old, my dog became very sick. He had cancer. He was in a lot of pain. I didn't really comprehend what cancer was back then, even thought my Aunt had died of lung cancer. All I knew of cancer back then was that my Auntie Marion smoked cigarettes, and then she died. When the vet told us George had cancer, I blamed my mum. I don't believe I ever told her that ... instead, I secretly hated her for it, because she smoked. 1 + 1 = 2 back then, so obviously she must have been to blame, right? George was in a lot of pain, but I wasn't ready to let him go. So, what did my mum do? She told me that she was going to make an appointment for him with the vet. She said they would be back. She had my coach and mentor stay with me, who encouraged me to say goodbye to my dog. I didn't understand, so I didn't say goodbye. I thought I would see him again. When my mum came home without George, I hated her for it. I didn't see that she had saved me the trauma of watching my dog be "put to sleep". She held me while I cried, and gave me my space when I needed it. She gave my Baby George the relief that he needed when I couldn't, and I never thanked her for it.
When I was eleven years old, the Winter before my twelfth birthday, we had to leave my hometown for my mom's work. There was nothing left for her in Brooks, but she had a job down in Red Deer. I was not happy about it. I told her that I hated her, that she was ruining my life. I thought the world would end if I couldn't see my friends every day, if I had to leave the house I'd lived in nearly my whole life. I blamed her for everything back then, because I was a child and I was mad. I dug my heels in. How did my mother respond? She worked it out so that I could stay on my Ringette team, and come back for games on the weekend. A three-hour drive almost every weekend. I don't know how much money that she spent on gas so that I could spend a couple hours a week with friends that I had grown up with. And when my school in Innisfail went on strike for three weeks, she worked it out so that I could go back to Brooks and take my old classes for a little while. I was thrilled to be back with my friends. I don't know that I ever sincerely said thank you. I didn't care about the sacrifices she was making for me, all I cared about was that I was getting what I wanted.
Hard work for me back then was keeping in shape for ringette. Hard work back then was getting Cs in school and not picking fights on the bus - I didn't succeed in either very often. Growing up, then? What a stupid notion.
When I was seventeen years old, I graduated from high school. My mother rented a red, mustang convertible for me. I secretly pouted that it wasn't silver, but loved it all the same. I had a wonderful grad, laughed with my friends, and used my absentee father's grad ticket to get a friend of mine into the grad dinner with us. My favorite aunt and uncle got to see me graduate, my mother and sister smiled and cried, and I didn't even trip walking down the aisle. It was a wonderful evening. I danced with the boy who would, a mere four years later, destroy my mother's life, and didn't even get a picture with my mother to commemorate the evening. She never complained.
When I was nineteen, we had to find another place to live. Our landlord wasn't going to renew our lease, and nowhere in Red Deer that we could afford would allow pets. It was our second move in two years. My mother had lost her own dog and favorite companion in that house. Though it probably broke her heart to say it, she suggested that we send my dog, Copper, to live with someone else for a while, until we could get back on our feet and find a place that would allow pets. I refused. I screamed. I told her that if Copper went, I went. I told her that I would move in with my brother, and never speak to her again. What did she do? She agreed to look outside of Red Deer, and let me pick a house in Sylvan that allowed pets. I never thanked her.
When I was twenty-years old, our 9-year old foster boy was taken out of our home. He was violently aggressive, would constantly abuse my mother, threaten other children in our home and in our lives, would break his and our property, and scream bloody murder if you so much as looked at him the wrong way. My mother put her heart and soul into making him feel loved and secure, and "they" deemed that our home was not safe for him. We had one day's notice that they were taking him. We were allowed to visit him for a couple months before they cut off all contact with him.
The hardest thing about my life back then? Re-alphabetizing my movies, working out time to go see movies with my friends, and figuring out a schedule to balance out all my favorite TV shows.
Seven months ago, my adopted brother was sent to a residential treatment home that was supposed to work a program around his behavior. He is a boy diagnosed with ADHD, ODD, undiagnosed FASD and Shaken Baby Syndrome. He is a sociopath. He destroys everything in his life that he touches.
Two months ago, hard work for me was watching our two and three-year old foster girls while my mother drove back and forth from Calgary and Sylvan to visit my brother, and try to assist in his treatment.
There was no treatment going on. He was shuffled from house to house, never getting proper supervision, never mind treatment. He was constantly going awol, verbally and physically abusing other youth and staff in the programs, running around downtown Calgary in the middle of the night, coming back boasting about drinking alcohol, with hickeys on his neck. A thirteen-year old, sociopathic boy, at-risk to be a sexual offender is wandering around Calgary in the middle of the night, and coming back with hickeys. The staff at the program had little to say for their lack of action, and my mother was growing evermore frustrated with the situation. But, what could she do? It wasn't safe for him to come home, and he was getting worse where he was. Rock, hard place, etc, etc.
Life sucked, but it was about to get a hell of a lot worse.
A little less than three weeks ago, the foster boy made an allegation against my mother. The boy who kicked and punched and bit and spat on and screamed at my mother told his social worker that my mother whipped him with a belt. The social worker believed it. She went to my adopted brother, who had always threatened that he was going to destroy my mother. He's told her for years that he's going to tell people that she's beating him up so that he can go back to his biological mother - the same woman who drank and did drugs while she was pregnant with him; the same woman who shook him when he was a baby; the same woman who couldn't be bothered to get out of bed to feed, dress, and care for her children; the same woman who faked a brain injury when it suited her; the same woman who nearly slept through her son trying to burn down their house with her in it; the same woman who let her son run back into a burning building to save his cat. My adopted brother told the social worker that my mother indeed whipped him with a belt.
My mother got paid $1.08 an hour to be a foster parent. She received little-to-no support from Children's Services, went through hell and back to adopt and care for my brother, did everything in her power to see that he got the help that he needed, even when her family members told her that it was time to give up - something she doesn't know how to do.
Children's Services has to take every single allegation seriously. I understand that. They took our two foster girls when they started their investigation two weeks ago. They said they'd be gone for a few days. My mother stopped getting paid as a foster parent, and they cut off her Child Tax Credit. None of the people in a position to help her at Children's Services were allowed to talk to her. My sister reached out to people who would know what to do, and told her to get a lawyer. Could you afford a lawyer on $1.08/hour? She got in touch with Legal Aid, who told her that she doesn't qualify, because she makes too much money. She made too much money because she could pay all of her bills. She paid all of her bills because I loaned her $440.00. She explained this to them, and still they told her they couldn't help her. My mother had to face this allegation with no legal representation, and no help from anyone in a position of authority within Children's Services.
Last month, my biggest priority was spending my student loan money, and not missing the season finale of True Blood. Since then, I've gotten a job at my local library, dropped my practicum so that I could keep that job, and spent every free moment trying to stave off my mother's depression.
On Friday, they finished their investigation.
Let me make one thing perfectly clear: My mother is not perfect. No one is. You show me a perfect person, and I'll show you an amazing con artist. While she is not perfect, my mother is not violent. She has never, and would never whip a child. We were confident that they would give her a slap on the wrist for a few spanking incidents, and everything would be fine. How could they take the word of two violently aggressive boys over hers?
We were wrong. The boy who promised to destroy my mother, so that he could go back to his birth mother who broke him, did exactly as he promised. They've decided she can no longer be a foster parent. My mother gave up her entire life to care for my brother, and other children like him. My mother, who has supported herself, myself, and every child in her house on a measly $1.08/hour, has been told that she can no longer be a foster parent.
I've never really had to grow up. Sure, I've been mature for my age for a long time, but mature for my age isn't exactly "mature". I don't drink, I don't do drugs, I don't sleep around, I don't go out partying. I make good grades, I stay out of trouble, and I don't waste my time on people who would only bring me down in the long run. I met a woman recently who couldn't believe that I was only 21, because I seemed so much more mature and "together" than that.
I don't want to be mature. I don't want to be a grown up. I want to yell and scream and break things. I want to storm up to Children's Services and bitch-slap them until they come to their senses. I want to walk up to my adopted brother's biological mother and rip her heart out of her chest for the pain she's caused my family.
Unfortunately, I can't do that. Every waking minute that isn't spent at school or work is being spent on keeping my mother from spiraling into depression.
I love my brother with all of my heart. I want him to get better. I want to wrap my arms around him and squeeze all of the hate and sickness out of him. I love him, but if I knew seven years ago that he was going to do this to my mother, I would have told her to let someone else take him in. Let someone else suffer at his hands ... she's my mother, and she doesn't deserve this.
When we walked into the movie theatre tonight, my mother looked at the Harry Potter poster and said, "Can you believe it's been that long? We read the first book when you were six years old."
Six years old, and my biggest troubles were learning how to skate, and earning enough allowance to buy 1-cent candies at the corner store.
How did we get here? More importantly, how do I make it stop?
Monday, August 29, 2011
Stop the Cycle of Violence
I've been seeing a lot of anti-bullying posts on Facebook lately. Normally what I would do is edit for spelling, and then post it on my own status, but it doesn't seem like that's enough. Sure, it's easy to copy and paste - we all do it. But, does the message really sink in?
The following is the post I'm talking about:
"The girl you just called fat? She is overdosing on diet pills. The girl you just called ugly? She spends hours putting makeup on, hoping people will like her. The boy you just tripped? He is abused enough at home. See that man with the ugly scars? He fought for our country. That guy you just made fun of for crying? His mother is dying. Put this on your status for an hour, if you are against bullying. You never know what it's like until you walk a mile in their shoes."
It would be impossible to describe all of the people who are bullied all across the world. The stereotypical ones are listed above, but they are not the only ones. The fact is, it's easy to bully the fat kid, the ugly kid, the emotional kid, the quiet kid who always keeps to him/herself. Kids like that present easy targets for bullies, but they aren't the only ones who have to deal with physical, verbal, and emotional abuse.
No one feels sorry for the cheerleader who get knocked down a peg or two by a mob of "outcasts". No one feels sorry for the football champion who pushes just a little too hard, and finally gets his "comeuppance". People don't think that the "pretty people" have to deal with the same problems ... those people are wrong.
Bullying happens everywhere, and it can happen to anyone.
Would it surprise you to know that it's more common for a girl to be a bully, than it is for a boy? I'm sure it would, and there's a simple reason for that: girls often bully those closest to them, girls who they would outwardly consider friends. Girls are sneaky, manipulate, and monumentally more cruel than boys. When a boy bullies, it's usually with straight up, physical violence.
The following is from the March 30, 2010 news report following the death of Phoebe Prince, a victim of bullying:
"Nine teenagers have been charged over the death of a 15-year-old Irish migrant who killed herself after months of merciless and sometimes violent bullying by fellow students at a Massachusetts school.
Phoebe Prince took her life in January in desperation at harassment led by female students who resented her dating an older American football player.
Six of the teenagers, four females and two males, face charges ranging from criminal harassment, stalking and breach of civil rights over the bullying which included text messages and abuse on Facebook.
The male students are also charged with statutory rape, apparently over relationships they had with Prince. Three younger girls, aged under 16, face delinquency charges. One has also been charged with assault with a dangerous weapon, listed as a bottle or can. Prince hanged herself at home at the end of a day at South Hadley high school in which she was bullied repeatedly by three students, including one she had a brief relationship with.
District attorney Elizabeth Scheibel said that on the day Prince killed herself she was verbally abused as she studied in the school library and pursued in the corridors. The teenagers then followed her as she walked home.
"From information known to investigators thus far, it appears that Phoebe's death on January 14th followed a tortuous day for her, in which she was subjected to verbal harassment and threatened physical abuse," said Scheibel. "Their [the students'] conduct far exceeded the limits of normal teenage relationship-related quarrels."
The district attorney said at least one school official observed the bullying but failed to report it.
Three of the students have since been expelled from the school.
The Massachusetts legislature has passed tough new anti-bullying laws in response to Prince's death and that of 11-year-old Carl Joseph Walker-Hoover, who also took his own life. The legislation would oblige schools to take action when they are informed about bullying.
Prince's death is one of several in recent months that have been attributed to bullying. The police in New York are investigating whether cyberbullying played a role in the decision of 17-year-old Alexis Pilkington to take her own life a fortnight ago. The attacks on her continued after her death on an internet page set up in tribute to Pilkington.
In Missouri, 13-year-old Megan Meier took her own life in 2006 after taunts from a fellow student's mother."
How many Phoebe Prince's are out there? Bullying is such a small word to describe a catastrophic epidemic that sweeps the entire world. How many young men and women are harassed by their peers for having something that they don't? How many young men and women are ostracized from their peers, verbally and physically abused on a daily basis? How much of this do we even see?
It's easy to punish the popular kid who picks on the smaller, "dorky-looking" kid, but how many people ask the bully "why did you do that?", AND sincerely want to know? The fact is, almost every bully that exists was bullied by someone else. Whether it be a parent, sibling, friend, or other peer.
Bullies are not always the tough-looking jock who everybody either respects or fears. Bullies are not always the pretty Homecoming Queen who always gets her way. These are the stereotypes that have been seared into our minds by teen soaps and bad movies. Bullies are everywhere, and almost every "bully" is a victim of some form of abuse, as well.
I'm not going to make a status post about how bad people should feel for bullying others. I'm not going to make a status post about how only misunderstood outcasts get bullied, and everyone else is just evil. I'm not going to go on a crusade to rescue the "little guy", and put the "bad guy" on display for the world to see. Instead, I'm going to say this: We live in a world where picking on other kids, and making them feel worse than we do is far too common of an occurrence. It needs to stop. All of it. Parents need to stop abusing their children, kids need to stop hurting their peers, and victims need to stop hurting themselves. Stop the cycle of violence - bully and bullied alike.
The following is the post I'm talking about:
"The girl you just called fat? She is overdosing on diet pills. The girl you just called ugly? She spends hours putting makeup on, hoping people will like her. The boy you just tripped? He is abused enough at home. See that man with the ugly scars? He fought for our country. That guy you just made fun of for crying? His mother is dying. Put this on your status for an hour, if you are against bullying. You never know what it's like until you walk a mile in their shoes."
It would be impossible to describe all of the people who are bullied all across the world. The stereotypical ones are listed above, but they are not the only ones. The fact is, it's easy to bully the fat kid, the ugly kid, the emotional kid, the quiet kid who always keeps to him/herself. Kids like that present easy targets for bullies, but they aren't the only ones who have to deal with physical, verbal, and emotional abuse.
No one feels sorry for the cheerleader who get knocked down a peg or two by a mob of "outcasts". No one feels sorry for the football champion who pushes just a little too hard, and finally gets his "comeuppance". People don't think that the "pretty people" have to deal with the same problems ... those people are wrong.
Bullying happens everywhere, and it can happen to anyone.
Would it surprise you to know that it's more common for a girl to be a bully, than it is for a boy? I'm sure it would, and there's a simple reason for that: girls often bully those closest to them, girls who they would outwardly consider friends. Girls are sneaky, manipulate, and monumentally more cruel than boys. When a boy bullies, it's usually with straight up, physical violence.
The following is from the March 30, 2010 news report following the death of Phoebe Prince, a victim of bullying:
"Nine teenagers have been charged over the death of a 15-year-old Irish migrant who killed herself after months of merciless and sometimes violent bullying by fellow students at a Massachusetts school.
Phoebe Prince took her life in January in desperation at harassment led by female students who resented her dating an older American football player.
Six of the teenagers, four females and two males, face charges ranging from criminal harassment, stalking and breach of civil rights over the bullying which included text messages and abuse on Facebook.
The male students are also charged with statutory rape, apparently over relationships they had with Prince. Three younger girls, aged under 16, face delinquency charges. One has also been charged with assault with a dangerous weapon, listed as a bottle or can. Prince hanged herself at home at the end of a day at South Hadley high school in which she was bullied repeatedly by three students, including one she had a brief relationship with.
District attorney Elizabeth Scheibel said that on the day Prince killed herself she was verbally abused as she studied in the school library and pursued in the corridors. The teenagers then followed her as she walked home.
"From information known to investigators thus far, it appears that Phoebe's death on January 14th followed a tortuous day for her, in which she was subjected to verbal harassment and threatened physical abuse," said Scheibel. "Their [the students'] conduct far exceeded the limits of normal teenage relationship-related quarrels."
The district attorney said at least one school official observed the bullying but failed to report it.
Three of the students have since been expelled from the school.
The Massachusetts legislature has passed tough new anti-bullying laws in response to Prince's death and that of 11-year-old Carl Joseph Walker-Hoover, who also took his own life. The legislation would oblige schools to take action when they are informed about bullying.
Prince's death is one of several in recent months that have been attributed to bullying. The police in New York are investigating whether cyberbullying played a role in the decision of 17-year-old Alexis Pilkington to take her own life a fortnight ago. The attacks on her continued after her death on an internet page set up in tribute to Pilkington.
In Missouri, 13-year-old Megan Meier took her own life in 2006 after taunts from a fellow student's mother."
How many Phoebe Prince's are out there? Bullying is such a small word to describe a catastrophic epidemic that sweeps the entire world. How many young men and women are harassed by their peers for having something that they don't? How many young men and women are ostracized from their peers, verbally and physically abused on a daily basis? How much of this do we even see?
It's easy to punish the popular kid who picks on the smaller, "dorky-looking" kid, but how many people ask the bully "why did you do that?", AND sincerely want to know? The fact is, almost every bully that exists was bullied by someone else. Whether it be a parent, sibling, friend, or other peer.
Bullies are not always the tough-looking jock who everybody either respects or fears. Bullies are not always the pretty Homecoming Queen who always gets her way. These are the stereotypes that have been seared into our minds by teen soaps and bad movies. Bullies are everywhere, and almost every "bully" is a victim of some form of abuse, as well.
I'm not going to make a status post about how bad people should feel for bullying others. I'm not going to make a status post about how only misunderstood outcasts get bullied, and everyone else is just evil. I'm not going to go on a crusade to rescue the "little guy", and put the "bad guy" on display for the world to see. Instead, I'm going to say this: We live in a world where picking on other kids, and making them feel worse than we do is far too common of an occurrence. It needs to stop. All of it. Parents need to stop abusing their children, kids need to stop hurting their peers, and victims need to stop hurting themselves. Stop the cycle of violence - bully and bullied alike.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
My Heart Hurts
Today, a very special woman died. I didn't know her very well, but she was very important to my sister, to my mother, and to many other people whose lives she touched. My sister knew her as "Auntie Joan". She was her favorite babysitter, and a woman she respected and loved. My mother knew her as "Mom". My mother's parents died when she was very young, so Joan became a surrogate mother to her.
I only met Joan a handful of times. She used to sell fruit on the side of the highway, and mom would take us on visits to see her. They would play crib, which was a favorite pastime of theirs. My mom never smiled as much as when she was with Joan.
Recently, Joan went into palliative care - she had bone cancer, and she knew that she wouldn't be able to beat it. She knew that it was her time, but she was never sad or depressed about it.
Mom got to visit her a few times before she died. It was hard for her, but she managed it. She never let herself cry in front of Joan, because she didn't want to make her feel bad; her tears were always saved for the hallway.
Joan had many visitors before she died. She was very well-loved. We went up to see her once more just before we went camping. She fed our foster kids Cheesies, chatted with mom, reminisced about good times, and took us on a tour of the hospital. Though she lacked the physical strength to stand, her mental and emotional strength was radiant. She gave the kids - whom she'd just met - lots of hugs, and let them ride on her lap in her wheelchair. She laughed and joked, even when she was in pain. Mom promised to come back and play crib with her.
We got back from our camping trip Sunday night, and mom spent most of Monday unpacking and cleaning. I'm sure a trip to Edmonton wasn't too far away, so she could see her 'Mom' again, and let her know how much she loved her.
Today, Tuesday morning, she got a call from Joan's husband. Joan died.
My mother almost never cries. In the last two years, I've seen her break down in tears only three times: When her Great Aunt, our "Grandma Lucy" died, when our cousin Jeff died, and now, when Auntie Joan died. I hate seeing her cry.
It's so easy to think of her as a strong, hardened woman. She hides her emotions very well, to the point where you can usually only see two: happy, and angry. I am very well-practiced at making her angry. Happy Mom I embrace. Angry Mom I can deal with. Sad Mom hurts my heart, because I can't fix her.
Why is the heart such a hard muscle to deal with? Why can't we heat it up, stretch it out, and rest it from time to time to take away the pain?
I had to take my books back to the library today, and I asked Mom if there was anything I could get her before I left. This was her response: "650 bottles of Whiskey. The secrets of the universe. Why good people have to die before their time is up."
Well, I don't drink, so the Whiskey was out. If I knew the secrets of the universe, I would gladly give them to her. As for the last bit, this is the only answer I have: "Life sucks." Sure, it can be wonderful, exciting, incredible, and fulfilling at times. But, when the people that you love die, life just sucks. It sucks because you can't join them. It sucks because all you have left is your memories of them, and memories are never enough.
August is a hard month. Yesterday was the 10th anniversary of the death of my first dog and best friend, George. After he died, my friend and mentor, Katie, told me that he'd never be gone, 'cause he would always be inside my heart. I would never be without him, as long as I never forgot him. People tell that to kids all the time to make them feel better. What I didn't say to her was this: "I'll never, ever forget him, but I'll never have him back, either. It's not the same - memories aren't the same. Memories are hollow, ghostly imitations of the real thing. You can‘t talk to a memory. You can‘t hug a memory. You can‘t rest your head on a memory‘s shoulder and cry until you feel better." My heart broke that day, and it's never really healed. It never will.
The thing about hearts, is that they get a little bit harder with every loss that we face. George, Sylvia, Jack, Auntie Marion, Uncle Frank, Grandma Lucy, Jeff, Ashlynn, Auntie Joan ... every time I lose someone, a little piece of my breaks, and eventually, that break has to be sealed over and hardened - if it weren't, I'd never be able to cope.
I can't begin to imagine how hard my mom's heart is. She had two parents who loved her, and they both died too young. I've told her once before that I would gladly let my dad trade places with hers, if she could have him back. I have no love left for my father, so getting my Grandpa Leiman back would seem like a pretty good trade. Sadly, the world doesn't work like that. We can wish and hope and pray (for those of you who believe in praying) that those we love will come back to us, or never leave in the first place.
I lost my faith when I was eleven years old. When George died, I couldn't bring myself to believe in a god that would let that happen. Over the years, I've rationalized that if there was a god, it wouldn't be his place to save or kill my dog. I don't blame "god" for my dog dying. But in these past ten years, I haven't seen anything to restore my faith, either. When Sylvia was sick, I didn't pray to "god" to keep her alive. When she died, I sent a plea up to my Baby George to take care of her, wherever they were. When Jack died, I sent a plea to the both of them to welcome him back and take care of him.
Today, when I came up the stairs, and Mom grabbed me and started crying, my first thought was, "Not Auntie Glad. Please don't let it be Auntie Glad." It wasn't, and I was relieved, but I was also sad. Sad for my mom. Sad for Joan's family. Sad for every person whose life she touched, who will have to go on without her now. Sad for all the hearts that just broke a little bit more.
I don't believe in god, but I do believe in Heaven. I do believe that when we die, we go to a better place. I hope that Joan is in that better place now. I hope that her pain is gone. I hope that George, Sylvia, Jack, Auntie Marion, Uncle Frank, Grandma Lucy, Jeff, and Ashlynn are taking very good care of her.
Someday it will get better. Someday, my mom's broken heart will seal over, and she'll be able to smile again. I hope that day will come soon, because I don't like it when she's sad. When she's sad, my heart hurts for her, and I need to be strong for her.
Rest in peace, Joan Murray - you are loved, and you will always be remembered.
I only met Joan a handful of times. She used to sell fruit on the side of the highway, and mom would take us on visits to see her. They would play crib, which was a favorite pastime of theirs. My mom never smiled as much as when she was with Joan.
Recently, Joan went into palliative care - she had bone cancer, and she knew that she wouldn't be able to beat it. She knew that it was her time, but she was never sad or depressed about it.
Mom got to visit her a few times before she died. It was hard for her, but she managed it. She never let herself cry in front of Joan, because she didn't want to make her feel bad; her tears were always saved for the hallway.
Joan had many visitors before she died. She was very well-loved. We went up to see her once more just before we went camping. She fed our foster kids Cheesies, chatted with mom, reminisced about good times, and took us on a tour of the hospital. Though she lacked the physical strength to stand, her mental and emotional strength was radiant. She gave the kids - whom she'd just met - lots of hugs, and let them ride on her lap in her wheelchair. She laughed and joked, even when she was in pain. Mom promised to come back and play crib with her.
We got back from our camping trip Sunday night, and mom spent most of Monday unpacking and cleaning. I'm sure a trip to Edmonton wasn't too far away, so she could see her 'Mom' again, and let her know how much she loved her.
Today, Tuesday morning, she got a call from Joan's husband. Joan died.
My mother almost never cries. In the last two years, I've seen her break down in tears only three times: When her Great Aunt, our "Grandma Lucy" died, when our cousin Jeff died, and now, when Auntie Joan died. I hate seeing her cry.
It's so easy to think of her as a strong, hardened woman. She hides her emotions very well, to the point where you can usually only see two: happy, and angry. I am very well-practiced at making her angry. Happy Mom I embrace. Angry Mom I can deal with. Sad Mom hurts my heart, because I can't fix her.
Why is the heart such a hard muscle to deal with? Why can't we heat it up, stretch it out, and rest it from time to time to take away the pain?
I had to take my books back to the library today, and I asked Mom if there was anything I could get her before I left. This was her response: "650 bottles of Whiskey. The secrets of the universe. Why good people have to die before their time is up."
Well, I don't drink, so the Whiskey was out. If I knew the secrets of the universe, I would gladly give them to her. As for the last bit, this is the only answer I have: "Life sucks." Sure, it can be wonderful, exciting, incredible, and fulfilling at times. But, when the people that you love die, life just sucks. It sucks because you can't join them. It sucks because all you have left is your memories of them, and memories are never enough.
August is a hard month. Yesterday was the 10th anniversary of the death of my first dog and best friend, George. After he died, my friend and mentor, Katie, told me that he'd never be gone, 'cause he would always be inside my heart. I would never be without him, as long as I never forgot him. People tell that to kids all the time to make them feel better. What I didn't say to her was this: "I'll never, ever forget him, but I'll never have him back, either. It's not the same - memories aren't the same. Memories are hollow, ghostly imitations of the real thing. You can‘t talk to a memory. You can‘t hug a memory. You can‘t rest your head on a memory‘s shoulder and cry until you feel better." My heart broke that day, and it's never really healed. It never will.
The thing about hearts, is that they get a little bit harder with every loss that we face. George, Sylvia, Jack, Auntie Marion, Uncle Frank, Grandma Lucy, Jeff, Ashlynn, Auntie Joan ... every time I lose someone, a little piece of my breaks, and eventually, that break has to be sealed over and hardened - if it weren't, I'd never be able to cope.
I can't begin to imagine how hard my mom's heart is. She had two parents who loved her, and they both died too young. I've told her once before that I would gladly let my dad trade places with hers, if she could have him back. I have no love left for my father, so getting my Grandpa Leiman back would seem like a pretty good trade. Sadly, the world doesn't work like that. We can wish and hope and pray (for those of you who believe in praying) that those we love will come back to us, or never leave in the first place.
I lost my faith when I was eleven years old. When George died, I couldn't bring myself to believe in a god that would let that happen. Over the years, I've rationalized that if there was a god, it wouldn't be his place to save or kill my dog. I don't blame "god" for my dog dying. But in these past ten years, I haven't seen anything to restore my faith, either. When Sylvia was sick, I didn't pray to "god" to keep her alive. When she died, I sent a plea up to my Baby George to take care of her, wherever they were. When Jack died, I sent a plea to the both of them to welcome him back and take care of him.
Today, when I came up the stairs, and Mom grabbed me and started crying, my first thought was, "Not Auntie Glad. Please don't let it be Auntie Glad." It wasn't, and I was relieved, but I was also sad. Sad for my mom. Sad for Joan's family. Sad for every person whose life she touched, who will have to go on without her now. Sad for all the hearts that just broke a little bit more.
I don't believe in god, but I do believe in Heaven. I do believe that when we die, we go to a better place. I hope that Joan is in that better place now. I hope that her pain is gone. I hope that George, Sylvia, Jack, Auntie Marion, Uncle Frank, Grandma Lucy, Jeff, and Ashlynn are taking very good care of her.
Someday it will get better. Someday, my mom's broken heart will seal over, and she'll be able to smile again. I hope that day will come soon, because I don't like it when she's sad. When she's sad, my heart hurts for her, and I need to be strong for her.
Rest in peace, Joan Murray - you are loved, and you will always be remembered.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
My "Letter to the Editor" of the Calgary Sun
Perhaps it is my youthful naivety, but I could hardly take the “To Serve and Offend” article seriously.
Let’s take a moment to reflect on how police officers as a whole are treated by the public, so-called victims of “rudeness”, and profanity.
I can’t walk through the downtown bus terminals without hearing some gaggle of boys with their pants below each buttock referring to how some “pig” was hassling them over some “totally bull---- problem“. How many movies today use donut stores to mock police officers? How many police officers are sworn at for pulling over a speeding car? How many men and women officers are spat on and cussed out for ticketing a car that was parked illegally? How many of them are told to “get a real job”, when they are DOING their job?
I would love to see any member of the average public attempt to do the civil service that police officers do; deal with the stress of protecting and serving the public, and then receive their own “tongue-lashings” when they don’t portray an utterly perfect and unquestionable image.
As Ald John Mar said, “The vast majority of our complaints are in the ‘He pulled me over and wasn’t very nice’ category”. Why does a police officer pull anyone over? Because they are endangering themselves or others, because the officer has observed questionable or dangerous behavior that needs to be addressed, or because the driver was breaking the law. Why do you, Joe Public, believe that you deserve to be treated like a god/goddess when you are disobeying the law that everyone is expected to follow? Should the police officer say something like, “Good afternoon, sir/ma’am. I hate to be a bother, but I couldn’t help but notice you were going 12 kilometers over the speed limit. I know, I know, it might not seem like much, but shucks if it ain’t against the law. I hate to take up too much of your time, but the law says I have to write this here ticket up. I thank you for your patience, good sir/ma’am, this will only take a moment. And please, when you’re done, feel free pay it at your convenience. Oh, thank you, thank you for your patience. You have a good day, now, and please try your best to keep it under the speed limit.” … Really? I think not.
The plain truth that no one seems to be mentioning is, more often than not, an “F-word” gets a lot more attention than “please and thank you”. I would rather have a less-than-pleasant officer on the streets prepared to save my life if need be, rather than a goody-good whose top priority is public appearance.
Let’s take a moment to reflect on how police officers as a whole are treated by the public, so-called victims of “rudeness”, and profanity.
I can’t walk through the downtown bus terminals without hearing some gaggle of boys with their pants below each buttock referring to how some “pig” was hassling them over some “totally bull---- problem“. How many movies today use donut stores to mock police officers? How many police officers are sworn at for pulling over a speeding car? How many men and women officers are spat on and cussed out for ticketing a car that was parked illegally? How many of them are told to “get a real job”, when they are DOING their job?
I would love to see any member of the average public attempt to do the civil service that police officers do; deal with the stress of protecting and serving the public, and then receive their own “tongue-lashings” when they don’t portray an utterly perfect and unquestionable image.
As Ald John Mar said, “The vast majority of our complaints are in the ‘He pulled me over and wasn’t very nice’ category”. Why does a police officer pull anyone over? Because they are endangering themselves or others, because the officer has observed questionable or dangerous behavior that needs to be addressed, or because the driver was breaking the law. Why do you, Joe Public, believe that you deserve to be treated like a god/goddess when you are disobeying the law that everyone is expected to follow? Should the police officer say something like, “Good afternoon, sir/ma’am. I hate to be a bother, but I couldn’t help but notice you were going 12 kilometers over the speed limit. I know, I know, it might not seem like much, but shucks if it ain’t against the law. I hate to take up too much of your time, but the law says I have to write this here ticket up. I thank you for your patience, good sir/ma’am, this will only take a moment. And please, when you’re done, feel free pay it at your convenience. Oh, thank you, thank you for your patience. You have a good day, now, and please try your best to keep it under the speed limit.” … Really? I think not.
The plain truth that no one seems to be mentioning is, more often than not, an “F-word” gets a lot more attention than “please and thank you”. I would rather have a less-than-pleasant officer on the streets prepared to save my life if need be, rather than a goody-good whose top priority is public appearance.
Hospital Nightmares and Blessings
...
A Traci/Jerry comfort fic.
...
Disclaimer: Don't own Rookie Blue.
...
A/N: To be honest, I kind of hate myself for writing this fic, but I can't really think of anything else to do right now, and writing keeps me calm. I just got a phone call from my mom telling me that my thirteen-year old brother tried to kill himself, and now I'm stuck here waiting for her to pick me up so we can go see him. I have some feelings to vent, so here it is.
...
Traci Barber-Nash barreled her way through the hospital, seeking the nurses' station she'd been directed to. Her husband was racing along behind her, gripping her hand tightly, trying to let her know silently that he wasn't going to leave her side.
They finally reached the desk, and Traci slapped her hand down on the counter when she stopped. "My son!" she almost shouted at the nearest nurse-looking person. "My son was brought in almost an hour ago. Where is he?"
The nurse couldn't have missed her anxiety and worry if she tried, and put on her most passively-assuring face. "What's your son's name?"
"Leo. Leo Nash. Please, tell me where he is?"
The woman behind the desk typed into the computer, reading silently for a second before looking up at two worried faces in front of her. "He's in the children's ward, room 214 -"
She stopped when Traci turned immediately in that direction.
"The doctor will want to see you!" the nurse called out to her, accepting a short wave from the husband before he followed.
Traci ignored the woman, rushing to the children's ward and searching for the room number she needed. She was out of breath when she finally made it to the room, and gasped at what she saw when she looked inside.
Twelve-year old Leo was hooked up to an IV drip, with various cords running from his body to the machine, and telltale white bandages wrapped around his wrists.
Traci gripped her belly in shock, a whimper escaping from her mouth.
"He's okay," Jerry told her, breaking through the din of her motherly heartbreak. "He's okay, Trace."
Traci walked into the room, moving to her son's side and gripping his hand with one of hers, while her other hand came up to settle over his forehead. She felt Jerry step in behind her, his hand squeezing her shoulder; his attempt at comfort. "I don't understand ... he was happy. I thought he was happy."
Jerry didn't know what to say to that, so he just moved even closer to her, pressing a kiss down on her other shoulder.
They watched over the sleeping boy for a few minutes, before someone cleared their throat behind them, causing them to turn.
"Mr. and Mrs. Nash?" the doctor inquired.
"Sort of," Traci commented offhand, her eyes still stuck to her son.
Jerry caught the look on the doctor's face, stepping in to explain. "I'm Jerry Barber, Leo is my stepson. Traci is Leo's mother."
The doctor nodded in understanding, walking into the room. "Your son suffered a lot of blood loss, but he's recovering well. He'll need to stay at least two nights before I'm comfortable with him leaving. And he'll need to talk to a Crisis Worker."
"What happened?" Traci needed to know. "Why did he ...? The school called, but all they said was that he was here, and he tried ..." She couldn't finish.
"From what I understand, Leo found a broken piece of glass, went into the boy's bathroom, and cut a small gash across each of his wrists."
A pained sob escaped Traci's lips, her body lowering to drop her forehead against Leo's.
"He's stable, but we'll continue monitoring him through the night. If you have any questions, feel free to page me. I'm on shift until 6:00 am." The doctor waited a moment to see if they had any further questions, and then departed from the room.
Jerry moved back to his wife's side, rubbing his hand in soothing circles on her back.
...
It was closing in on nine o'clock pm when Leo began to stir.
Traci sat up immediately, brushing a hand over her son's face. "Leo?"
The boy blinked several times, groggy and weak. "Mom?"
Traci breathed a sigh of relief, that was quickly replaced by anger. "What were you thinking?"
Leo frowned sadly, unable to meet his mother's eyes. "I'm sorry, Mom."
Traci shook her head. "Why would you try to ... kill yourself? Aren't you happy? I thought we were happy."
Leo shrugged. "I don't know."
Traci brought a shaky hand to Leo's smaller one, holding it tightly in her grasp. "What were supposed to do without you, huh? What about your baby sister? Do you think she'd want to grow up not knowing her brother?"
Leo's face fell even further at that, looking over at his mother's enlarged stomach. "You would've gotten on fine."
Traci's eyes widened. "What?"
Leo sighed, glancing at Jerry before explaining, "You're starting your own family now. You'll have a new baby, and she's both of yours ... you won't need me anymore. I'll just get in the way."
Traci couldn't speak, she was so astounded. She couldn't believe her son thought that.
Jerry came around the bed, stopping on Leo's other side. He brought one strong hand to Leo's shoulder, rocking it a bit. "Buddy, you know I love you. You're just as much my son as Beth will be my daughter. We love you both the same."
Leo didn't look convinced.
Jerry sighed, leaning over so that his face was close to Leo's. "You know what your mom asked me before we got married?"
Leo looked into Jerry's eyes, shaking his head. "No."
Jerry glanced at Traci for approval, and when she nodded, he continued. "Your mom was worried that I only loved her, and not you. So, she asked me a question. There I was, down on one knee, ring in my hand, waiting for her to answer my question, and she said, 'What if the house was on fire?' Now, I looked at her like she was completely nuts, and she went on, 'Jer, what if the house was on fire. Me and Leo were both trapped in different parts of the house, and you could only save one of us. Who would you save?'" Jerry fixed Leo with a serious look, his gaze unwavering. "You know what my answer was?"
Leo shook his head again, absorbed in his step-dad's story.
"I said, 'I'd get Leo out of the house, and yell at you to get your ass in gear and meet us outside.' She laughed, and told me that she'd love to marry me."
Leo's eyebrows furrowed into a confused expression, trying to understand the moral of the story.
"What that means, Leo, is that you mean the world to me, even though you're not one-hundred percent my biological child. I would walk through fire for you - your mom would too - and there is nothing you could do to make us love you any less," Jerry informed him.
Leo's lips pursed together, trying to stop himself from crying.
"He means it, Kiddo," Traci confirmed. "This new baby is going to bring us all so much happiness, and I know that you're going to be an awesome big brother. But, how about we make a deal?"
Leo blinked the wetness out of his eyes, meeting his mom's eyes at last. "What kind of deal?"
"Well, how about after the baby's born, we'll have a special day every week, just for you and Jerry, and you two can go and do whatever you want. You'll have the whole day to yourself. Does that sound like a plan?"
Leo considered that. "You won't be mad at me?"
Traci coughed out a laugh, wiping her own tears from her eyes. "Oh, I wouldn't go that far right now, mister. But, I think we'll manage. You gotta promise me something, though."
Leo nodded. "Anything."
"You can never do anything like this again," she stated seriously, her eyes hard and determined. "I don't ever want to get a call from anyone telling me that you've hurt yourself."
Leo nodded, ashamed at the disappointment in his mother's eyes. "Promise. I'm sorry, Mom ... Dad." His eyes flickered to Jerry after he said, waiting for a reaction.
Jerry grinned despite himself. "That's the first time you've called me that."
Leo nodded, unable to say anything more.
"Thanks, buddy. You know I love you." Jerry ruffled the young boy's hair.
Leo smiled back. "I love you, too ... Dad."
Traci was crying different tears now, brushing a hand over her son's cheek. She halted after a second, her body going rigid. She looked down at her belly with a smile. "The baby kicked."
Jerry came back around the bed, placing a hand on Traci's stomach. After a few seconds, he felt the little bomp of the baby girl's feet. "Leo, give me your hand."
Leo slowly reached his hand up, staring at his mother's stomach with uncertain eyes.
Jerry took Leo's hand, placing it on Traci's stomach and holding it there.
"I don't feel anything," the boy stated sadly.
"Just wait," Traci whispered, looking down at her stomach, and the three hands that covered it.
Four Mississippi’s later, a big kick came.
"Wow!" Leo gasped, shocked at the feeling.
"That's your sister," Traci commented with a grin. She would give her son a hell of a lecture later, and probably end up crying on Jerry's shoulder while Leo was sleeping ... but right now, she just wanted to enjoy this moment. Standing there, with her husband and son holding onto her pregnant belly, while her little girl kicked hope into their lives.
They would make it ... everything would be okay. It had to be.
...
The end.
Let me know what you think. Thanks for bearing with me.
A Traci/Jerry comfort fic.
...
Disclaimer: Don't own Rookie Blue.
...
A/N: To be honest, I kind of hate myself for writing this fic, but I can't really think of anything else to do right now, and writing keeps me calm. I just got a phone call from my mom telling me that my thirteen-year old brother tried to kill himself, and now I'm stuck here waiting for her to pick me up so we can go see him. I have some feelings to vent, so here it is.
...
Traci Barber-Nash barreled her way through the hospital, seeking the nurses' station she'd been directed to. Her husband was racing along behind her, gripping her hand tightly, trying to let her know silently that he wasn't going to leave her side.
They finally reached the desk, and Traci slapped her hand down on the counter when she stopped. "My son!" she almost shouted at the nearest nurse-looking person. "My son was brought in almost an hour ago. Where is he?"
The nurse couldn't have missed her anxiety and worry if she tried, and put on her most passively-assuring face. "What's your son's name?"
"Leo. Leo Nash. Please, tell me where he is?"
The woman behind the desk typed into the computer, reading silently for a second before looking up at two worried faces in front of her. "He's in the children's ward, room 214 -"
She stopped when Traci turned immediately in that direction.
"The doctor will want to see you!" the nurse called out to her, accepting a short wave from the husband before he followed.
Traci ignored the woman, rushing to the children's ward and searching for the room number she needed. She was out of breath when she finally made it to the room, and gasped at what she saw when she looked inside.
Twelve-year old Leo was hooked up to an IV drip, with various cords running from his body to the machine, and telltale white bandages wrapped around his wrists.
Traci gripped her belly in shock, a whimper escaping from her mouth.
"He's okay," Jerry told her, breaking through the din of her motherly heartbreak. "He's okay, Trace."
Traci walked into the room, moving to her son's side and gripping his hand with one of hers, while her other hand came up to settle over his forehead. She felt Jerry step in behind her, his hand squeezing her shoulder; his attempt at comfort. "I don't understand ... he was happy. I thought he was happy."
Jerry didn't know what to say to that, so he just moved even closer to her, pressing a kiss down on her other shoulder.
They watched over the sleeping boy for a few minutes, before someone cleared their throat behind them, causing them to turn.
"Mr. and Mrs. Nash?" the doctor inquired.
"Sort of," Traci commented offhand, her eyes still stuck to her son.
Jerry caught the look on the doctor's face, stepping in to explain. "I'm Jerry Barber, Leo is my stepson. Traci is Leo's mother."
The doctor nodded in understanding, walking into the room. "Your son suffered a lot of blood loss, but he's recovering well. He'll need to stay at least two nights before I'm comfortable with him leaving. And he'll need to talk to a Crisis Worker."
"What happened?" Traci needed to know. "Why did he ...? The school called, but all they said was that he was here, and he tried ..." She couldn't finish.
"From what I understand, Leo found a broken piece of glass, went into the boy's bathroom, and cut a small gash across each of his wrists."
A pained sob escaped Traci's lips, her body lowering to drop her forehead against Leo's.
"He's stable, but we'll continue monitoring him through the night. If you have any questions, feel free to page me. I'm on shift until 6:00 am." The doctor waited a moment to see if they had any further questions, and then departed from the room.
Jerry moved back to his wife's side, rubbing his hand in soothing circles on her back.
...
It was closing in on nine o'clock pm when Leo began to stir.
Traci sat up immediately, brushing a hand over her son's face. "Leo?"
The boy blinked several times, groggy and weak. "Mom?"
Traci breathed a sigh of relief, that was quickly replaced by anger. "What were you thinking?"
Leo frowned sadly, unable to meet his mother's eyes. "I'm sorry, Mom."
Traci shook her head. "Why would you try to ... kill yourself? Aren't you happy? I thought we were happy."
Leo shrugged. "I don't know."
Traci brought a shaky hand to Leo's smaller one, holding it tightly in her grasp. "What were supposed to do without you, huh? What about your baby sister? Do you think she'd want to grow up not knowing her brother?"
Leo's face fell even further at that, looking over at his mother's enlarged stomach. "You would've gotten on fine."
Traci's eyes widened. "What?"
Leo sighed, glancing at Jerry before explaining, "You're starting your own family now. You'll have a new baby, and she's both of yours ... you won't need me anymore. I'll just get in the way."
Traci couldn't speak, she was so astounded. She couldn't believe her son thought that.
Jerry came around the bed, stopping on Leo's other side. He brought one strong hand to Leo's shoulder, rocking it a bit. "Buddy, you know I love you. You're just as much my son as Beth will be my daughter. We love you both the same."
Leo didn't look convinced.
Jerry sighed, leaning over so that his face was close to Leo's. "You know what your mom asked me before we got married?"
Leo looked into Jerry's eyes, shaking his head. "No."
Jerry glanced at Traci for approval, and when she nodded, he continued. "Your mom was worried that I only loved her, and not you. So, she asked me a question. There I was, down on one knee, ring in my hand, waiting for her to answer my question, and she said, 'What if the house was on fire?' Now, I looked at her like she was completely nuts, and she went on, 'Jer, what if the house was on fire. Me and Leo were both trapped in different parts of the house, and you could only save one of us. Who would you save?'" Jerry fixed Leo with a serious look, his gaze unwavering. "You know what my answer was?"
Leo shook his head again, absorbed in his step-dad's story.
"I said, 'I'd get Leo out of the house, and yell at you to get your ass in gear and meet us outside.' She laughed, and told me that she'd love to marry me."
Leo's eyebrows furrowed into a confused expression, trying to understand the moral of the story.
"What that means, Leo, is that you mean the world to me, even though you're not one-hundred percent my biological child. I would walk through fire for you - your mom would too - and there is nothing you could do to make us love you any less," Jerry informed him.
Leo's lips pursed together, trying to stop himself from crying.
"He means it, Kiddo," Traci confirmed. "This new baby is going to bring us all so much happiness, and I know that you're going to be an awesome big brother. But, how about we make a deal?"
Leo blinked the wetness out of his eyes, meeting his mom's eyes at last. "What kind of deal?"
"Well, how about after the baby's born, we'll have a special day every week, just for you and Jerry, and you two can go and do whatever you want. You'll have the whole day to yourself. Does that sound like a plan?"
Leo considered that. "You won't be mad at me?"
Traci coughed out a laugh, wiping her own tears from her eyes. "Oh, I wouldn't go that far right now, mister. But, I think we'll manage. You gotta promise me something, though."
Leo nodded. "Anything."
"You can never do anything like this again," she stated seriously, her eyes hard and determined. "I don't ever want to get a call from anyone telling me that you've hurt yourself."
Leo nodded, ashamed at the disappointment in his mother's eyes. "Promise. I'm sorry, Mom ... Dad." His eyes flickered to Jerry after he said, waiting for a reaction.
Jerry grinned despite himself. "That's the first time you've called me that."
Leo nodded, unable to say anything more.
"Thanks, buddy. You know I love you." Jerry ruffled the young boy's hair.
Leo smiled back. "I love you, too ... Dad."
Traci was crying different tears now, brushing a hand over her son's cheek. She halted after a second, her body going rigid. She looked down at her belly with a smile. "The baby kicked."
Jerry came back around the bed, placing a hand on Traci's stomach. After a few seconds, he felt the little bomp of the baby girl's feet. "Leo, give me your hand."
Leo slowly reached his hand up, staring at his mother's stomach with uncertain eyes.
Jerry took Leo's hand, placing it on Traci's stomach and holding it there.
"I don't feel anything," the boy stated sadly.
"Just wait," Traci whispered, looking down at her stomach, and the three hands that covered it.
Four Mississippi’s later, a big kick came.
"Wow!" Leo gasped, shocked at the feeling.
"That's your sister," Traci commented with a grin. She would give her son a hell of a lecture later, and probably end up crying on Jerry's shoulder while Leo was sleeping ... but right now, she just wanted to enjoy this moment. Standing there, with her husband and son holding onto her pregnant belly, while her little girl kicked hope into their lives.
They would make it ... everything would be okay. It had to be.
...
The end.
Let me know what you think. Thanks for bearing with me.
Monday, May 2, 2011
The Late 'Osama bin Laden'
Breathe in … Breathe out. Osama bin Laden is dead.
"Tonight I can report to the American people and to the world that the United States has conducted an operation that killed Osama bin Laden, the leader of Al-Qaeda and a terrorist who's responsible for the murder of thousands of innocent men, women, and children." - Barack Obama.
Nearly 10 years ago, the entire world as we knew it changed: the World Trade Center was destroyed - an attack masterminded by Osama bin Laden. On the morning of September 11, 2001, Al-Qaeda-affiliated hijackers flew two 767 jets into the complex, one into each tower, in a coordinated terrorist attack. After burning for 56 minutes, the South Tower collapsed, followed a half-hour later by the North Tower, with the attacks on the World Trade Center resulting in 2,752 deaths.
Certainly his crimes go beyond the 9/11 attacks:
- He was involved in the December 29, 1992 bombing of the Gold Mihor Hotel in Aden. Two people were killed.
- He and three others are believed to have killed 2 German citizens in Libya on March 10, 1994.
- He funded the Luxor massacre of November 17, 1997. Sixty-two civilians were killed.
- He is linked to the August 7, 1998 US Embassy bombings, where hundreds of people were killed by suicide bombers.
- He co-signed a “fatwa” (Islamic decree) with Ayman al-Zawahiri in the name of the “World Islamic Front for Jihad Against Jews and Crusaders”, which declared the killing of North Americans and their allies as an “individual duty for every Muslim”. He labeled North Americans as “easy targets”.
- In 2004, he claimed responsibility for the September 11, 2001 attacks on the United States.
In his 2008 campaign, Obama repeatedly vowed: “We will kill Osama bin Laden.”
On May 1, 2011, the complex where he was hiding was infiltrated by a small group of American “special forces” soldiers. Osama bin Laden resisted the attack, and was killed along with three other men in a fire-fight. Thankfully, none of the American soldiers were killed.
Yes, one of the world’s most wanted men is now dead. Many people across the world celebrate his death. Is it our place to celebrate it? That’s not for me to dictate. You can’t help how you feel about the death of a terrorist and mass murderer. I’ll tell you how I feel: relieved. Safe. Secure. … And worried. Yes, I will sleep soundly tonight knowing that the man responsible for countless murders can no longer harm a single soul on this planet. But, there is also a heavy burden on my heart, because I don’t know what tomorrow, or the next day will bring, as a result of his death. Will al-Qaeda strike back? Will his second-in-command, Ayman al-Zawahiri, simply replace him as the world’s most-feared, and most-wanted man? I don’t have the answers to these questions.
What I have is this: Terrorism will never stop. This is a reality that I accept. There will always be conflicting super-powers, there will always be religious fanatics, there will always be clashing beliefs and values that spark the flame of war. But on May 1, 2011, the world got to breathe a sigh of relief. On May 1, 2011, Barack Obama, President of the United States, fulfilled his promise to the American people - and the world - that he would put an end to Osama bin Laden’s tyranny and mass-murder.
Breathe in, Breathe out. Sleep safe tonight. He cannot hurt you anymore.
"Tonight I can report to the American people and to the world that the United States has conducted an operation that killed Osama bin Laden, the leader of Al-Qaeda and a terrorist who's responsible for the murder of thousands of innocent men, women, and children." - Barack Obama.
Nearly 10 years ago, the entire world as we knew it changed: the World Trade Center was destroyed - an attack masterminded by Osama bin Laden. On the morning of September 11, 2001, Al-Qaeda-affiliated hijackers flew two 767 jets into the complex, one into each tower, in a coordinated terrorist attack. After burning for 56 minutes, the South Tower collapsed, followed a half-hour later by the North Tower, with the attacks on the World Trade Center resulting in 2,752 deaths.
Certainly his crimes go beyond the 9/11 attacks:
- He was involved in the December 29, 1992 bombing of the Gold Mihor Hotel in Aden. Two people were killed.
- He and three others are believed to have killed 2 German citizens in Libya on March 10, 1994.
- He funded the Luxor massacre of November 17, 1997. Sixty-two civilians were killed.
- He is linked to the August 7, 1998 US Embassy bombings, where hundreds of people were killed by suicide bombers.
- He co-signed a “fatwa” (Islamic decree) with Ayman al-Zawahiri in the name of the “World Islamic Front for Jihad Against Jews and Crusaders”, which declared the killing of North Americans and their allies as an “individual duty for every Muslim”. He labeled North Americans as “easy targets”.
- In 2004, he claimed responsibility for the September 11, 2001 attacks on the United States.
In his 2008 campaign, Obama repeatedly vowed: “We will kill Osama bin Laden.”
On May 1, 2011, the complex where he was hiding was infiltrated by a small group of American “special forces” soldiers. Osama bin Laden resisted the attack, and was killed along with three other men in a fire-fight. Thankfully, none of the American soldiers were killed.
Yes, one of the world’s most wanted men is now dead. Many people across the world celebrate his death. Is it our place to celebrate it? That’s not for me to dictate. You can’t help how you feel about the death of a terrorist and mass murderer. I’ll tell you how I feel: relieved. Safe. Secure. … And worried. Yes, I will sleep soundly tonight knowing that the man responsible for countless murders can no longer harm a single soul on this planet. But, there is also a heavy burden on my heart, because I don’t know what tomorrow, or the next day will bring, as a result of his death. Will al-Qaeda strike back? Will his second-in-command, Ayman al-Zawahiri, simply replace him as the world’s most-feared, and most-wanted man? I don’t have the answers to these questions.
What I have is this: Terrorism will never stop. This is a reality that I accept. There will always be conflicting super-powers, there will always be religious fanatics, there will always be clashing beliefs and values that spark the flame of war. But on May 1, 2011, the world got to breathe a sigh of relief. On May 1, 2011, Barack Obama, President of the United States, fulfilled his promise to the American people - and the world - that he would put an end to Osama bin Laden’s tyranny and mass-murder.
Breathe in, Breathe out. Sleep safe tonight. He cannot hurt you anymore.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
My Super-Dog … or, the Luckiest S.O.B. on the Planet.
My family and I went for a two-night stay over in Calgary to visit my brother, and have some relaxing time in the hotel. The visit with my brother was fun - the first time I got to see him in over a month. We went shopping, picked up some KFC, went down by the river and enjoyed a windy but pleasant lunch, then drove back to the hotel for some swimming. The visit was nice. The hotel stay? Not entirely. First, we had to downsize our room because the one we booked had no fridge to put our Easter leftovers in, nor a microwave to heat them up. Then, my mother nearly broke her foot on a loose step in the hot-tub, and walked around with a painful, swollen foot the entire trip. Finally, when we got to check out, not only has management provided no concession for my mother’s injury - or even the hint of a sincere apology - they’ve denied us the medical rate for our room, and charged us for two nights of having a dog in our room. We didn’t bring my dog.
We should have, though. This is where my story really begins.
We were gone for two days, arranging for our neighbor to feed, water, and otherwise take care of my dog while we’re away. She’s done it before, we trust her. Copper likes her. All good, right? Wrong.
Apparently we’ve gone away to Calgary too much lately, and I’ve been staying in Red Deer too much lately, and my dog is just downright pissed off at us.
He ate: 1 loaf of bread, 1 bag of Lays Original chips, an entire box of unopened Pot of Gold chocolates that my mother got for Easter, an undeterrmined amount of Instant Coffee, an undetermined amount of Jelly Beans that were hidden in the eggs the kids didn’t find at Easter, and my brother’s Sea Monkeys & their food.
He tore up: garbage, papers in my room, coasters, the lid to the cookie jar that the Instant Coffee was in, and one of my Western Pizza cups that I collect. He also knocked over various items from the counter, and one of our upstairs bookcases.
Yeah … he’s in the proverbial doghouse.
It’s not like it’s a secret that my dog is a garbage-guts, though. When we first got him, he ate everything. I do not exaggerate. He ate anything that was left out on the counter: meat, butter, bread, candy, chocolate … whatever there was. He would take scraps of plastic, paper, and garbage outside and chew it up in the yard. He made off with my Resident Evil movie, and chewed up the case. He’s the first dog that actually enabled me to say honestly that, “my dog ate my homework”. He’s eaten our satellite remote, my hair dye, a few unfortunate stuffed animals - the only thing that has ever made him sick is Chinese food. That was a decidedly NOT FUN experience, one that was never repeated. He’s eaten chocolate, candy, and other table scraps, and it’s never made him sick. But, he’s never eaten and ENTIRE box of chocolates, and he’s never eaten chocolate that wasn’t given to him by one of us.
He is lucky to be alive. And not just because he chewed up part of my cup collection … though, if it were one of my Coca Cola cups, it might be a different story. J
Honestly, though, I love my dog. I love him more than anything, and I freely admit this. I am sure that it bothers several family members, but it is the truth. I love animals more than humans, and I always will. I love Copper, I want him to live for many, many years.
My first dog, George, died when he was eight, on August 22, from cancer. My mom left home claiming to be taking him for an appointment, and came home without him. I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye. My second dog, Sylvia, died when she was three, on March 18. She woke up paralyzed on the lower part of her body, from a calcified disc in her back. I had to make the choice to not let her suffer any longer. My mom’s dog, Jack, died when he was sixteen. He had a heart murmur, cataracts, arthritis, and finally died in my arms from a stroke at 5:30 in the morning on November 30.
Copper’s birthday is in July. He will be seven years old. He’s already beaten the 3-year mark, I want him to beat the 8-year mark. I’d love him to beat the 16-year mark. More than that, I want him to be healthy. I want him to live a long, full life, with as little pain as possible. He will be my last dog for a very long time. I don’t want him to suffer through old age, like Jack did, but I want him to live a long, long life.
My dog is a medical marvel. He’s eaten chocolate, which is supposed to be like poison for dogs. He’s eaten a full bottle of hair dye, and the conditioner that came along with it, which should have killed him. He’s eaten paper, plastic, garbage, cardboard, and various human foods. He’s eaten the equivalent of 12-14 days worth of dog food in one sitting when he snuck into the room where we kept his food. He is not a fat dog, nor do we force this food on him - he gets into it all by himself. As of yet, he has survived.
Does that mean I’ll let the box of chocolates, Instant Coffee, or Sea Monkeys sit on the counter when we go out anymore? Nope.
We should have, though. This is where my story really begins.
We were gone for two days, arranging for our neighbor to feed, water, and otherwise take care of my dog while we’re away. She’s done it before, we trust her. Copper likes her. All good, right? Wrong.
Apparently we’ve gone away to Calgary too much lately, and I’ve been staying in Red Deer too much lately, and my dog is just downright pissed off at us.
He ate: 1 loaf of bread, 1 bag of Lays Original chips, an entire box of unopened Pot of Gold chocolates that my mother got for Easter, an undeterrmined amount of Instant Coffee, an undetermined amount of Jelly Beans that were hidden in the eggs the kids didn’t find at Easter, and my brother’s Sea Monkeys & their food.
He tore up: garbage, papers in my room, coasters, the lid to the cookie jar that the Instant Coffee was in, and one of my Western Pizza cups that I collect. He also knocked over various items from the counter, and one of our upstairs bookcases.
Yeah … he’s in the proverbial doghouse.
It’s not like it’s a secret that my dog is a garbage-guts, though. When we first got him, he ate everything. I do not exaggerate. He ate anything that was left out on the counter: meat, butter, bread, candy, chocolate … whatever there was. He would take scraps of plastic, paper, and garbage outside and chew it up in the yard. He made off with my Resident Evil movie, and chewed up the case. He’s the first dog that actually enabled me to say honestly that, “my dog ate my homework”. He’s eaten our satellite remote, my hair dye, a few unfortunate stuffed animals - the only thing that has ever made him sick is Chinese food. That was a decidedly NOT FUN experience, one that was never repeated. He’s eaten chocolate, candy, and other table scraps, and it’s never made him sick. But, he’s never eaten and ENTIRE box of chocolates, and he’s never eaten chocolate that wasn’t given to him by one of us.
He is lucky to be alive. And not just because he chewed up part of my cup collection … though, if it were one of my Coca Cola cups, it might be a different story. J
Honestly, though, I love my dog. I love him more than anything, and I freely admit this. I am sure that it bothers several family members, but it is the truth. I love animals more than humans, and I always will. I love Copper, I want him to live for many, many years.
My first dog, George, died when he was eight, on August 22, from cancer. My mom left home claiming to be taking him for an appointment, and came home without him. I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye. My second dog, Sylvia, died when she was three, on March 18. She woke up paralyzed on the lower part of her body, from a calcified disc in her back. I had to make the choice to not let her suffer any longer. My mom’s dog, Jack, died when he was sixteen. He had a heart murmur, cataracts, arthritis, and finally died in my arms from a stroke at 5:30 in the morning on November 30.
Copper’s birthday is in July. He will be seven years old. He’s already beaten the 3-year mark, I want him to beat the 8-year mark. I’d love him to beat the 16-year mark. More than that, I want him to be healthy. I want him to live a long, full life, with as little pain as possible. He will be my last dog for a very long time. I don’t want him to suffer through old age, like Jack did, but I want him to live a long, long life.
My dog is a medical marvel. He’s eaten chocolate, which is supposed to be like poison for dogs. He’s eaten a full bottle of hair dye, and the conditioner that came along with it, which should have killed him. He’s eaten paper, plastic, garbage, cardboard, and various human foods. He’s eaten the equivalent of 12-14 days worth of dog food in one sitting when he snuck into the room where we kept his food. He is not a fat dog, nor do we force this food on him - he gets into it all by himself. As of yet, he has survived.
Does that mean I’ll let the box of chocolates, Instant Coffee, or Sea Monkeys sit on the counter when we go out anymore? Nope.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
End of Year 2
Another year gone. When I started this whole college thing, I wasn’t too excited about it. Because, really, my options were: get a job, or go to school. Because I hated my last job, I opted for higher education. My thinking: part time school, a couple classes a week, how bad could it be?
My answer: it was pretty okay. Deferring my practicum the first semester wasn’t exactly my brightest choice, but if I hadn’t, then I wouldn't have gotten the chance to do a practicum at Tiny Treasures in the spring. That was fun. that was the semester that I finally started to love school again.
Don’t get my wrong, I’m not one of those people who hates school, doesn’t see the point in it, and never did well in school. I used to love school. When I was a kid, I was almost always the first one to catch on to reading, writing, and math. I loved it - I would always win when we played “Around the World Math” in grade 3. I wrote my first story in grade 1, and absolutely fell in love with writing. Then we moved, and my marks dropped from almost-honor-roll, down to 30s. Innisfail was not a happy place for me. Four months later, we moved again, and they went back up to 60s and 70s. That was okay for me. I didn’t put a whole lot of effort into school after that - maybe because I was resigned to having to pack up and move again at the drop of a hat, maybe because from my last experience, the teachers weren’t too interested in teaching. I mean, my high school math teacher - while entertaining in her own right - cared more about shopping online for shoes and vintage Fraggles than actually teaching me the specifics of domain and range. I stopped putting an effort into math, and the other courses that weren’t as fun, and put all my energy into the classes that I did love: English, Psychology, Social, and Band. Those were my best classes in high school. My English teacher was and still is my favorite teacher. Psychology was easily my best class, even though my teacher didn’t have a clue. Social was fun, because I love learning about history, and in Band, I got to jam out with my friends.
Then we graduated, and went our separate ways, and life just sort of went on. I got heavy into writing, and quit my less-than-stellar job because I was getting sick too much. After far too much time spent vegging on the couch, watching TV and reading/writing fanfics, it was finally time to make that life-altering choice: job, or school.
School it was. That was only one half of the choice, though. Okay, going to school - but what will I take in school. My first choice was Psychology. I want a degree in Criminal Psychology. The catch? I need Pure Math 30, because there’s a statistics course in the degree course. Of course there is. Remember that impressive math teacher I had in school? Sigh … okay, Psychology was out for a while. Next, was Social Work. Well, I’d had way too much experience with the inner working of social services and foster care, so I wasn’t too eager to become one of “them”.
After some more perusing of the available courses at RDC, I came across Early Learning and Child Care. It wasn’t what I’d imagined myself doing, but I thought I’d give it a try. It was only a two-year course, so I thought I’d give it a try. End result: I’m now a Level 2 Child Care Provider, and I’m loving every minute of it.
Tomorrow I’ll write my last 2 exams of the semester, and so will end my second year of college. I’m finished with my third practicum, and have already made plans to go back and volunteer once my exams are over.
This has been a busy year for me. When I wasn’t in school, I was in practicum, and when I wasn’t in practicum, I was finishing assignments and preparing activities for practicum. I’ve missed over half of my shows this year, my puppy has spent more time with my mother than he has with me, my hours of sleep have been next to non-existent, and it’s a debate every morning whether I really want to put the effort in shaving my legs, or just throw on pants instead of shorts. I chopped off all my hair because I was sick of the winter frizz-ball it becomes, and have fallen madly in love with our foster children. I got to reconnect with my friends from high school, dealt with my youngest brother’s issues and saying goodbye to him, spend oodles of time with my brother, sister-in-law, and niece, and finished writing my first novel. I’ve bounced back and forth from Red Deer, to Sylvan, to Edmonton, and back, spending maybe 1/3 of the time in my own bed.
So, 2 exams tomorrow and then I’m officially done for the year. What am I going to do? SLEEP! SLEEP! And then? … SLEEP! Spend time with my dog, have movie/TV show marathons with my sister-in-law, hang out with my niece, and … oh, yeah: SLEEP!
My answer: it was pretty okay. Deferring my practicum the first semester wasn’t exactly my brightest choice, but if I hadn’t, then I wouldn't have gotten the chance to do a practicum at Tiny Treasures in the spring. That was fun. that was the semester that I finally started to love school again.
Don’t get my wrong, I’m not one of those people who hates school, doesn’t see the point in it, and never did well in school. I used to love school. When I was a kid, I was almost always the first one to catch on to reading, writing, and math. I loved it - I would always win when we played “Around the World Math” in grade 3. I wrote my first story in grade 1, and absolutely fell in love with writing. Then we moved, and my marks dropped from almost-honor-roll, down to 30s. Innisfail was not a happy place for me. Four months later, we moved again, and they went back up to 60s and 70s. That was okay for me. I didn’t put a whole lot of effort into school after that - maybe because I was resigned to having to pack up and move again at the drop of a hat, maybe because from my last experience, the teachers weren’t too interested in teaching. I mean, my high school math teacher - while entertaining in her own right - cared more about shopping online for shoes and vintage Fraggles than actually teaching me the specifics of domain and range. I stopped putting an effort into math, and the other courses that weren’t as fun, and put all my energy into the classes that I did love: English, Psychology, Social, and Band. Those were my best classes in high school. My English teacher was and still is my favorite teacher. Psychology was easily my best class, even though my teacher didn’t have a clue. Social was fun, because I love learning about history, and in Band, I got to jam out with my friends.
Then we graduated, and went our separate ways, and life just sort of went on. I got heavy into writing, and quit my less-than-stellar job because I was getting sick too much. After far too much time spent vegging on the couch, watching TV and reading/writing fanfics, it was finally time to make that life-altering choice: job, or school.
School it was. That was only one half of the choice, though. Okay, going to school - but what will I take in school. My first choice was Psychology. I want a degree in Criminal Psychology. The catch? I need Pure Math 30, because there’s a statistics course in the degree course. Of course there is. Remember that impressive math teacher I had in school? Sigh … okay, Psychology was out for a while. Next, was Social Work. Well, I’d had way too much experience with the inner working of social services and foster care, so I wasn’t too eager to become one of “them”.
After some more perusing of the available courses at RDC, I came across Early Learning and Child Care. It wasn’t what I’d imagined myself doing, but I thought I’d give it a try. It was only a two-year course, so I thought I’d give it a try. End result: I’m now a Level 2 Child Care Provider, and I’m loving every minute of it.
Tomorrow I’ll write my last 2 exams of the semester, and so will end my second year of college. I’m finished with my third practicum, and have already made plans to go back and volunteer once my exams are over.
This has been a busy year for me. When I wasn’t in school, I was in practicum, and when I wasn’t in practicum, I was finishing assignments and preparing activities for practicum. I’ve missed over half of my shows this year, my puppy has spent more time with my mother than he has with me, my hours of sleep have been next to non-existent, and it’s a debate every morning whether I really want to put the effort in shaving my legs, or just throw on pants instead of shorts. I chopped off all my hair because I was sick of the winter frizz-ball it becomes, and have fallen madly in love with our foster children. I got to reconnect with my friends from high school, dealt with my youngest brother’s issues and saying goodbye to him, spend oodles of time with my brother, sister-in-law, and niece, and finished writing my first novel. I’ve bounced back and forth from Red Deer, to Sylvan, to Edmonton, and back, spending maybe 1/3 of the time in my own bed.
So, 2 exams tomorrow and then I’m officially done for the year. What am I going to do? SLEEP! SLEEP! And then? … SLEEP! Spend time with my dog, have movie/TV show marathons with my sister-in-law, hang out with my niece, and … oh, yeah: SLEEP!
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Thankful For My Childhood Experiences
To everyone who gets pissed at their parents when they discover that the "Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy," and "Santa" aren't "real", I have this to say to you:
They've bought at least one extra present for each one of you at every Christmas, often more expensive and extravagant than the ones they took credit for. They filled your stockings with treats and toys, trying hard not to make any noise so that the magic of Christmas wouldn't be ruined for you. They've rearranged their schedules to buy your "Santa" presents when you wouldn't be there to see it, and then went to extreme measures to hide them so the surprise wouldn't be ruined. They helped you write letters to "Santa", and helped you read the reply that you got, cuddling you in their arms while you smiled with glee. They let you wake them up extra early to see what “Santa” brought everyone. They lied and hid and did whatever they could so that you could stay an innocent kid for just a little while longer.
They helped you seal up your teeth in little white envelopes, or small tooth containers, so that you could place them under your bed for the tooth fairy to come. They’ve dug into their own wallets for every single tooth that you lost, giving you money and letting a small, tutu-toting fairy take credit for it. They’ve undergone the chilling fear of trading that tooth for money, hoping that you wouldn’t wake up and catch them.
They bought chocolate, candy, toy bunnies, and other Easter presents, stayed up late to make sure that you were asleep before laying them out for you, and then let you wake them up early so they could see what the “Easter Bunny” brought everyone.
Quit bitching about your parents trying to let you enjoy your childhood - be thankful that they went to the lengths that they did for your enjoyment.
“Santa”, the “Easter Bunny”, and the “Tooth Fairly” ARE REAL. They are the mother and/or father who thanklessly did all of the above, and did everything that s/he could to keep the credit off of her/him.
They've bought at least one extra present for each one of you at every Christmas, often more expensive and extravagant than the ones they took credit for. They filled your stockings with treats and toys, trying hard not to make any noise so that the magic of Christmas wouldn't be ruined for you. They've rearranged their schedules to buy your "Santa" presents when you wouldn't be there to see it, and then went to extreme measures to hide them so the surprise wouldn't be ruined. They helped you write letters to "Santa", and helped you read the reply that you got, cuddling you in their arms while you smiled with glee. They let you wake them up extra early to see what “Santa” brought everyone. They lied and hid and did whatever they could so that you could stay an innocent kid for just a little while longer.
They helped you seal up your teeth in little white envelopes, or small tooth containers, so that you could place them under your bed for the tooth fairy to come. They’ve dug into their own wallets for every single tooth that you lost, giving you money and letting a small, tutu-toting fairy take credit for it. They’ve undergone the chilling fear of trading that tooth for money, hoping that you wouldn’t wake up and catch them.
They bought chocolate, candy, toy bunnies, and other Easter presents, stayed up late to make sure that you were asleep before laying them out for you, and then let you wake them up early so they could see what the “Easter Bunny” brought everyone.
Quit bitching about your parents trying to let you enjoy your childhood - be thankful that they went to the lengths that they did for your enjoyment.
“Santa”, the “Easter Bunny”, and the “Tooth Fairly” ARE REAL. They are the mother and/or father who thanklessly did all of the above, and did everything that s/he could to keep the credit off of her/him.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Driving 101
Let me preface this blog by informing you that I do not have a driver’s license. I do not have a learner’s permit, nor a desire to acquire one.
Why, you might ask?
Well, the first and foremost explanation is that there is not even a shadow of a doubt in my ever-whirring mind that I would have road-rage. People annoy me, this is no secret. So, imagine putting me behind the wheel of a speeding, metal hunk of devastating weaponry, with such annoying people in my sights … it would not end well for them. It would be quite costly for me.
That being said, while I do not possess the legal or physical ability to drive an automobile, I am not shy about putting my two cents in to those who “can” drive.
I will demonstrate the stupidity of some of the drivers that I have seen endangering the streets with their dangerous actions.
1) While driving along the highway to Red Deer, we passed a person who was texting on their slide-phone. You know, the ones with those handy keyboards that come out so you can type on it like a real keyboard? Makes texting SO MUCH FASTER! Also makes idiots think that they can text with both hands wherever they want to, even behind the wheel. I can only assume that she was using her knees to steady the steering wheel, and had the speed set to cruise control. Smart? No. Would I want to run her moronic ass off the road if I possessed my own vehicle? Yes.
2) On the same day, while traveling the streets of Red Deer on our way to drop me off at the college, my mother let out a loud statement of shock and amused annoyance: “Oh my god, that woman is curling her eyelashes and driving!” … Yes, she was. After we changed lanes, I got a nice, close-up view of this ‘genius’. She was in fact curling her eyelashes with one hand, while the other pretended to steer. The car pulled ahead of us, and the next time we pulled up beside her, she had her glasses back on, and her passenger was curling her eyelashes. … Did you catch that? She put her GLASSES BACK ON. Let’s examine that statement in its entirety, shall we? This woman, who presumably requires glasses so that she can see - to drive! - took off her glasses while she was driving. Then, after effectively blinding herself, she took out a metal, cosmetic weapon and put it against her eye.
Let’s examine the steps for using an eyelash curler, shall we?
1: Apply eye shadow and eyeliner, allowing it to dry before curling your lashes. Mascara is always applied after curling the lashes to avoid lash breakage and smearing.
2:Ensure that your lashes are clean and dry.
3: Open the curler and place your upper lashes inside its mouth. Close your eye slightly, then open it; all of the lashes should move into the curler's mouth. Always hold the eyelash curler so that the mouth is parallel to your lashes.
4: Move the curler closer to the eye until the tool comes to the base of the lashes, but not over the skin of the eyelid.
5: Keep the eye open and slowly close the curler. Your eyelashes should fan out evenly across the upper bar. If at any time you feel pinching, readjust the curler.
6: Hold the closed curler for a slow count of five, keeping your hand and face steady. Repeat for additional volume.
7: Repeat with the other eye.
While I’m sure this would make a vain person’s eyelashes look just fantastic, is this an appropriate activity to do while driving? … NO!!!!
If talking on a hand-held device is illegal to do while driving, how in the hell is curling your eyelashes acceptable? It’s not. You want to kill yourself, do it in a manner that will not take innocent casualties with you.
Driving is not some nuisance that keeps you from getting all your “important” things done, it is something that requires your full and uninterrupted attention.
With idiot drivers like this on the road, why the hell would I ever want to get a license?
Why, you might ask?
Well, the first and foremost explanation is that there is not even a shadow of a doubt in my ever-whirring mind that I would have road-rage. People annoy me, this is no secret. So, imagine putting me behind the wheel of a speeding, metal hunk of devastating weaponry, with such annoying people in my sights … it would not end well for them. It would be quite costly for me.
That being said, while I do not possess the legal or physical ability to drive an automobile, I am not shy about putting my two cents in to those who “can” drive.
I will demonstrate the stupidity of some of the drivers that I have seen endangering the streets with their dangerous actions.
1) While driving along the highway to Red Deer, we passed a person who was texting on their slide-phone. You know, the ones with those handy keyboards that come out so you can type on it like a real keyboard? Makes texting SO MUCH FASTER! Also makes idiots think that they can text with both hands wherever they want to, even behind the wheel. I can only assume that she was using her knees to steady the steering wheel, and had the speed set to cruise control. Smart? No. Would I want to run her moronic ass off the road if I possessed my own vehicle? Yes.
2) On the same day, while traveling the streets of Red Deer on our way to drop me off at the college, my mother let out a loud statement of shock and amused annoyance: “Oh my god, that woman is curling her eyelashes and driving!” … Yes, she was. After we changed lanes, I got a nice, close-up view of this ‘genius’. She was in fact curling her eyelashes with one hand, while the other pretended to steer. The car pulled ahead of us, and the next time we pulled up beside her, she had her glasses back on, and her passenger was curling her eyelashes. … Did you catch that? She put her GLASSES BACK ON. Let’s examine that statement in its entirety, shall we? This woman, who presumably requires glasses so that she can see - to drive! - took off her glasses while she was driving. Then, after effectively blinding herself, she took out a metal, cosmetic weapon and put it against her eye.
Let’s examine the steps for using an eyelash curler, shall we?
1: Apply eye shadow and eyeliner, allowing it to dry before curling your lashes. Mascara is always applied after curling the lashes to avoid lash breakage and smearing.
2:Ensure that your lashes are clean and dry.
3: Open the curler and place your upper lashes inside its mouth. Close your eye slightly, then open it; all of the lashes should move into the curler's mouth. Always hold the eyelash curler so that the mouth is parallel to your lashes.
4: Move the curler closer to the eye until the tool comes to the base of the lashes, but not over the skin of the eyelid.
5: Keep the eye open and slowly close the curler. Your eyelashes should fan out evenly across the upper bar. If at any time you feel pinching, readjust the curler.
6: Hold the closed curler for a slow count of five, keeping your hand and face steady. Repeat for additional volume.
7: Repeat with the other eye.
While I’m sure this would make a vain person’s eyelashes look just fantastic, is this an appropriate activity to do while driving? … NO!!!!
If talking on a hand-held device is illegal to do while driving, how in the hell is curling your eyelashes acceptable? It’s not. You want to kill yourself, do it in a manner that will not take innocent casualties with you.
Driving is not some nuisance that keeps you from getting all your “important” things done, it is something that requires your full and uninterrupted attention.
With idiot drivers like this on the road, why the hell would I ever want to get a license?
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Domestic Violence - Don't Be Silent
I have never been in an abusive relationship. I was never bullied or picked on, never got into a fight that I lost. I don’t know what it feels like to be a victim.
Sadly, not everyone can make that statement truthfully. Every day, countless women and children are abused by their husbands, boyfriends, and fathers. Every day, somewhere in the world, a man comes home and beats his wife because he had a bad day. Every day, somewhere in the world, a child is being beaten by their parent because life just wasn’t what they thought it would be. Abusers can come up with an endless list of excuses for why they are beating on their chosen victims.
Not all abuse is so easily visible as a physical beating. Other forms of abuse - emotional, psychological, financial, sexual, and verbal abuse - happen every day. There is no one form of abuse that is worse than the other; they are all equally terrifying and unforgettable.
Too many women and children’s lives are ended due to domestic violence.
But, would it surprise you to know that women and children are not the only victims of domestic abuse? Would it shock you to know that there is only one men’s shelter in Alberta? It shocks me - not because it surprises me that men are abused, but because 1 shelter is not nearly enough for one province. Men are just as susceptible to domestic violence, but for whatever reasons - pride, embarrassment, fear - more men fail to report domestic violence and abuse than women do.
Will this blog make a difference in those statistics? No. Will this blog stop domestic violence? No. But the more people speak up about it, the more people will know about it. The more people who know about it, the more people will see that it needs to stop.
If you know someone who is in an abusive relationship, offer them a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on. Give them hope and sanctuary, if they so desire it. If you know a child who is suffering abuse, it is your DUTY to report it. It will never benefit a child to remain silent because you don’t want to stick your nose in, or risk losing a friend if you report them.
Domestic Violence ruins lives. Don’t let your silence support that atrocity.
Sadly, not everyone can make that statement truthfully. Every day, countless women and children are abused by their husbands, boyfriends, and fathers. Every day, somewhere in the world, a man comes home and beats his wife because he had a bad day. Every day, somewhere in the world, a child is being beaten by their parent because life just wasn’t what they thought it would be. Abusers can come up with an endless list of excuses for why they are beating on their chosen victims.
Not all abuse is so easily visible as a physical beating. Other forms of abuse - emotional, psychological, financial, sexual, and verbal abuse - happen every day. There is no one form of abuse that is worse than the other; they are all equally terrifying and unforgettable.
Too many women and children’s lives are ended due to domestic violence.
But, would it surprise you to know that women and children are not the only victims of domestic abuse? Would it shock you to know that there is only one men’s shelter in Alberta? It shocks me - not because it surprises me that men are abused, but because 1 shelter is not nearly enough for one province. Men are just as susceptible to domestic violence, but for whatever reasons - pride, embarrassment, fear - more men fail to report domestic violence and abuse than women do.
Will this blog make a difference in those statistics? No. Will this blog stop domestic violence? No. But the more people speak up about it, the more people will know about it. The more people who know about it, the more people will see that it needs to stop.
If you know someone who is in an abusive relationship, offer them a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on. Give them hope and sanctuary, if they so desire it. If you know a child who is suffering abuse, it is your DUTY to report it. It will never benefit a child to remain silent because you don’t want to stick your nose in, or risk losing a friend if you report them.
Domestic Violence ruins lives. Don’t let your silence support that atrocity.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Meadow
This was a poem that I wrote my first summer at YouthWrite.
I watched as she raised her hand.
Frozen in place,
All I could do was watch.
And then,
I could only wince.
Pain - excruciating.
But not new.
Pain,
Everyday … for nothing.
She raises her fist,
And I close my eyes.
I wish myself to a meadow.
The kind with bunnies that hop,
And birds that chirp.
I pretend that I’m not lying,
In a pool of my blood.
I’m soaring,
Up high in the clouds.
Wings spread.
Content in the afternoon sky.
In my meadow,
It’s easy to pretend my life isn’t horrible.
In my meadow,
I can play with the bunnies.
I watched as she raised her hand.
Frozen in place,
All I could do was watch.
And then,
I could only wince.
Pain - excruciating.
But not new.
Pain,
Everyday … for nothing.
She raises her fist,
And I close my eyes.
I wish myself to a meadow.
The kind with bunnies that hop,
And birds that chirp.
I pretend that I’m not lying,
In a pool of my blood.
I’m soaring,
Up high in the clouds.
Wings spread.
Content in the afternoon sky.
In my meadow,
It’s easy to pretend my life isn’t horrible.
In my meadow,
I can play with the bunnies.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Animalism 101
I am against the murdering of dogs for “attacking” human beings. No, that is an understatement. I am so far against this unspeakable crime that if I could, I would sooner inject the executioner with that liquid death than allow it to be forced into that innocent animal.
People are always going on about how vicious dogs can be, and how they can turn on you in an instant if you’re not careful.
Bullshit.
Dogs are fiercely loyal. They are energetic, excitable, and guess what? They have sharp teeth and claws. And what does any animal - PS, this means humans, too - do when it feels threatened? It fights back.
What people don’t realize about animal attacks, is that the animal is ALWAYS provoked. Does a dog understand that your five-year old child wasn’t actually trying to kill him when he jabbed his thumb into his eye, stepped on his foot, or was rough with him in any other way? No. All the animal knows is that he’s being hurt, and it needs to stop.
Here’s a thought, people: supervise your effing children.
When I was a kid, I made the mistake of trying to pet my aunt’s dog while he was eating. Did I mean the dog harm? No. I just wanted to play with him. Did Pepsi realize that? No. He thought I was trying to take his food. It was my mistake, and I actually recognized that … go figure!
Communication barrier, people. Dogs cannot communicate their fears and protestations to us in a way that we would prefer, so we need to open up our eyes and ears, and actually pay attention to what they are trying to tell us.
When a dog is whining, growling, pawing at the ground, has his hackles raised and his teeth bared: that’s a pretty damn clear sign that you should walk away.
As humans, when someone tries to hurt us, we fight back. Sometimes that is punished by law, but usually not, and certainly not as severely as a death sentence. But, when an animal fights back against a human, that animal is considered “dangerous”, and must be put to death immediately. It is disgusting, it is cruel, and it is unacceptable.
Instead of punishing animals for defending themselves, we need to educate our children to respect animals. Instead of labeling these creatures as mean or vicious, we might take a look at what happened to them to make them do those things. Or, here’s another thought: maybe look at the people that were supposedly “attacked” by the dog. Because not all animal attacks are on children, there are many “grown-ups” who’ve supposedly been “attacked” by an animal, and had to take drastic measures to save their own lives. … Assuming for the moment that is true, tell me, why exactly were you carrying a gun on you in the first place? I’m speaking on the poor dog who was shot in the head and left for dead in a ditch, while his family knew nothing of what had happened to him. If that dog really had attacked that man, then he would have made a colossal deal of it, and would have gone to the “proper authorities” after killing the dog. No, a man who was telling the truth about an animal attack wouldn’t have hidden the body and hoped that no one would ever find out.
Cruelty against animals is disgusting, and any man, woman, or child who thinks that it is okay to hurt such a gentle and loving creature, be warned: if I see you so much as laying an unfriendly hand upon an animal’s head, it could very well be the last thing that you do - and not because of the animal.
People are always going on about how vicious dogs can be, and how they can turn on you in an instant if you’re not careful.
Bullshit.
Dogs are fiercely loyal. They are energetic, excitable, and guess what? They have sharp teeth and claws. And what does any animal - PS, this means humans, too - do when it feels threatened? It fights back.
What people don’t realize about animal attacks, is that the animal is ALWAYS provoked. Does a dog understand that your five-year old child wasn’t actually trying to kill him when he jabbed his thumb into his eye, stepped on his foot, or was rough with him in any other way? No. All the animal knows is that he’s being hurt, and it needs to stop.
Here’s a thought, people: supervise your effing children.
When I was a kid, I made the mistake of trying to pet my aunt’s dog while he was eating. Did I mean the dog harm? No. I just wanted to play with him. Did Pepsi realize that? No. He thought I was trying to take his food. It was my mistake, and I actually recognized that … go figure!
Communication barrier, people. Dogs cannot communicate their fears and protestations to us in a way that we would prefer, so we need to open up our eyes and ears, and actually pay attention to what they are trying to tell us.
When a dog is whining, growling, pawing at the ground, has his hackles raised and his teeth bared: that’s a pretty damn clear sign that you should walk away.
As humans, when someone tries to hurt us, we fight back. Sometimes that is punished by law, but usually not, and certainly not as severely as a death sentence. But, when an animal fights back against a human, that animal is considered “dangerous”, and must be put to death immediately. It is disgusting, it is cruel, and it is unacceptable.
Instead of punishing animals for defending themselves, we need to educate our children to respect animals. Instead of labeling these creatures as mean or vicious, we might take a look at what happened to them to make them do those things. Or, here’s another thought: maybe look at the people that were supposedly “attacked” by the dog. Because not all animal attacks are on children, there are many “grown-ups” who’ve supposedly been “attacked” by an animal, and had to take drastic measures to save their own lives. … Assuming for the moment that is true, tell me, why exactly were you carrying a gun on you in the first place? I’m speaking on the poor dog who was shot in the head and left for dead in a ditch, while his family knew nothing of what had happened to him. If that dog really had attacked that man, then he would have made a colossal deal of it, and would have gone to the “proper authorities” after killing the dog. No, a man who was telling the truth about an animal attack wouldn’t have hidden the body and hoped that no one would ever find out.
Cruelty against animals is disgusting, and any man, woman, or child who thinks that it is okay to hurt such a gentle and loving creature, be warned: if I see you so much as laying an unfriendly hand upon an animal’s head, it could very well be the last thing that you do - and not because of the animal.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Moments Like This
This was one of my Rookie Blue fics, originally posted on fanfiction.net under the title "All It Takes". I tweaked it a bit, and changed the name after some more consideration. I think this one works better.
Some days, it was hard to remember why he did this. Every day, he left his wife and kids behind, and put himself in harm's way. Every day, he went out onto the streets, and tried to make the world a better place. And every day, he wondered why he even bothered. The world never seemed to get any better; never felt any safer. For every criminal they put behind bars, another three new ones showed up on the streets. For every drug dealer they busted, more were being bred every minute. What was the point?
It was moments like this. Today they found a missing girl. They stopped unspeakable things from happening to her, they arrested the people responsible for taking her. Because of them, that little girl got to go home to her mother. And to top it all off, he got to go home to his wife and daughters. All in all, it was a good day, he supposed.
The girls were asleep when he got home, so he greeted his wife first. She could tell with one look that it had been a rough day, so she wrapped her arms around tightly around him. She told him that she loved him, and that they'd talk about it once he got his fill of his beautiful daughters.
He nodded in mute gratitude, making his way to their bedrooms. He went to his oldest daughter's room first, seeing her tucked deeply into the covers. He could always tell when she was really sleeping, because she snored in an off-beat tune, and twitched her foot just a little bit. Whenever she was faking, she would lie perfectly still, and her fists would clench ever so slightly against the blanket. He didn't want to wake her when she was so peaceful in her slumber, so he just looked upon her for a while. Her face was so serene while she slept, and he couldn't bring himself to disturb her. Next, he made his way to the younger girls' room. They were the lightest sleepers, and sat up in their beds as soon as he opened the door.
"Hi, Daddy!" his youngest daughter whispered, smiling a sleepy smile.
He smiled in response, making his way to her bed. They all ended up on one bed, and he wrapped his arms around both of them, hugging his fill, and then some more.
"Did you catch bad guys today?" his other daughter asked.
Oliver smiled sadly, nodding his head. "Yeah, I did."
"That's good," she replied, snuggling into his warm body.
He continued nodding, holding his daughters tightly. He didn't know what he would do if anything like that happened to them. Well, no ... he knew exactly what he would do. He would tear the city apart until he found them, and boulder through everyone who got in his way. He would give his life to keep his daughters from harm.
He stayed in their room for a while longer, but their yawning eventually alerted him to the fact that he was messing with their sleeping cycle. "Time for bed, girls," he told them quietly, kissing each one on the forehead. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Daddy," they each replied. "We love you."
Oliver Shaw smiled, tucking them into their beds. "I love you, too." He made his way out of the room, the door clicking closed behind him. The off-duty cop made his way back out to the living room, seeing that his wife was waiting for him on the couch with a drink. "Thanks," he told her, sitting next to her.
She smile sadly, leaning over to snuggle against him.
No matter what kind of day he had, no matter how it turned out, all it took was a smile from his daughters and a hug from his wife, and the world made sense again. There were no pedophiles, or absentminded mothers; no car accidents or tragedies. Just warmth and love and care, and a more perfect family than he ever could have hoped for.
Oliver's arms wrapped back around his wife, saving his drink for later. For now, he just wanted to hold her, and hold onto the feeling of peace that her touch created. Everything else could wait.
Some days, it was hard to remember why he did this. Every day, he left his wife and kids behind, and put himself in harm's way. Every day, he went out onto the streets, and tried to make the world a better place. And every day, he wondered why he even bothered. The world never seemed to get any better; never felt any safer. For every criminal they put behind bars, another three new ones showed up on the streets. For every drug dealer they busted, more were being bred every minute. What was the point?
It was moments like this. Today they found a missing girl. They stopped unspeakable things from happening to her, they arrested the people responsible for taking her. Because of them, that little girl got to go home to her mother. And to top it all off, he got to go home to his wife and daughters. All in all, it was a good day, he supposed.
The girls were asleep when he got home, so he greeted his wife first. She could tell with one look that it had been a rough day, so she wrapped her arms around tightly around him. She told him that she loved him, and that they'd talk about it once he got his fill of his beautiful daughters.
He nodded in mute gratitude, making his way to their bedrooms. He went to his oldest daughter's room first, seeing her tucked deeply into the covers. He could always tell when she was really sleeping, because she snored in an off-beat tune, and twitched her foot just a little bit. Whenever she was faking, she would lie perfectly still, and her fists would clench ever so slightly against the blanket. He didn't want to wake her when she was so peaceful in her slumber, so he just looked upon her for a while. Her face was so serene while she slept, and he couldn't bring himself to disturb her. Next, he made his way to the younger girls' room. They were the lightest sleepers, and sat up in their beds as soon as he opened the door.
"Hi, Daddy!" his youngest daughter whispered, smiling a sleepy smile.
He smiled in response, making his way to her bed. They all ended up on one bed, and he wrapped his arms around both of them, hugging his fill, and then some more.
"Did you catch bad guys today?" his other daughter asked.
Oliver smiled sadly, nodding his head. "Yeah, I did."
"That's good," she replied, snuggling into his warm body.
He continued nodding, holding his daughters tightly. He didn't know what he would do if anything like that happened to them. Well, no ... he knew exactly what he would do. He would tear the city apart until he found them, and boulder through everyone who got in his way. He would give his life to keep his daughters from harm.
He stayed in their room for a while longer, but their yawning eventually alerted him to the fact that he was messing with their sleeping cycle. "Time for bed, girls," he told them quietly, kissing each one on the forehead. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Daddy," they each replied. "We love you."
Oliver Shaw smiled, tucking them into their beds. "I love you, too." He made his way out of the room, the door clicking closed behind him. The off-duty cop made his way back out to the living room, seeing that his wife was waiting for him on the couch with a drink. "Thanks," he told her, sitting next to her.
She smile sadly, leaning over to snuggle against him.
No matter what kind of day he had, no matter how it turned out, all it took was a smile from his daughters and a hug from his wife, and the world made sense again. There were no pedophiles, or absentminded mothers; no car accidents or tragedies. Just warmth and love and care, and a more perfect family than he ever could have hoped for.
Oliver's arms wrapped back around his wife, saving his drink for later. For now, he just wanted to hold her, and hold onto the feeling of peace that her touch created. Everything else could wait.
If I Could Scream it to the Heavens ...
What is the one thing that you’ve always wanted to say to someone, but never could find the right words?
I am many things. I am blunt, opinionated, loud, insistent, driven, harsh, passionate, rude, mouthy, and defiant. There are an infinite amount of adjectives to describe the kind of person that I am. But there is one thing that I am not: a liar. I am not delusional, or a deranged attention-whore. I do not make up stories to make people like me, feel sorry for me, or be jealous of me. I don’t need to, because I don’t give a damn what people think of me. I don’t define myself by how others view me, and I never will.
I don’t need absolution to tell me when something is real. I don’t need to parade around my boyfriend so that other people will be convinced of his existence. And I sure as hell don’t need to subject myself to the psychological torture that some people call friendship, just so that I have people to go to the movies with. Guess what? Unlike some people, I don’t mind going to the movies alone. And unlike some people, I can have a private relationship without having to provide evidence to "concerned" individuals.
I’m sorry that I’m not a self-absorbed slut, or a flamboyant, wannabe-punk who tries desperately to hide his homosexuality by falling in love with a girl who will never love him back. I’m sorry that I don’t cast stones upon my supposed friends the second that they are the most vulnerable. I’m sorry that I don’t deal with my grief and hatred in a timely fashion. I’m so sorry that it took me over two years to detach myself from the venomous trollop that was supposed to be my best friend. But you know what? I’m better for it. Unlike some people, it bothers me to pretend that everything is okay, when it really isn’t.
If I ever had a piece of wisdom to impart on anyone, it would be this: be very careful who you tell personal information to. Even when you think that you can trust someone more than your own family, there is no guarantee that they won’t stab you in the back.
Would you like to know some other words to describe me: jaded, distrustful, wary, cold, spiteful, vindictive. Guess what? There are people who made me this way. I am not always a bright ray of sunshine, who can laugh everything off. There are some things that don’t roll off of my shoulders like water. I am human, and if you cut me, I do bleed. When you hurt me, I cry. When you piss me off, I scream. And when you sit there like the smug little bastards that you are, be happy that I have a modicum of respect for your parents, that I wouldn’t hurt you like you’ve hurt me.
I am not a nice person. I generally don’t have a problem with this, because I am very good at putting on a smile, and pretending that everything is okay. But sometimes, I just don’t have the energy to care about other people’s feelings.
How many of us have experienced this? How many of us have been betrayed by those closest to us? How many of us have loved with our whole hearts, only to have them stomped on callously and with more malice than anyone could have thought possible? How many of us have dug our nails so far into our palms that we’ve drawn blood, just to thump down the urge to inflict the appropriate amount of physical pain to ease our emotional pain?
There are days when I can actually look back on my past and smile, and think about the good times that we had together … but those days are few and far between.
I am not a liar, I am not delusional, and I am not an attention-whore. What I am, is a fighter. If I hadn’t actually matured over the last four years, I might be inclined to use this all-consuming rage and rip you apart piece by piece until your screams of mercy have appeased me. No, I’ve matured since then. I am also a writer, and what would be inappropriate - and illegal - to say with my fists, I am more than happy to say with my words.
I will never forgive you, and if I never see you again, it will be too soon.
I am many things. I am blunt, opinionated, loud, insistent, driven, harsh, passionate, rude, mouthy, and defiant. There are an infinite amount of adjectives to describe the kind of person that I am. But there is one thing that I am not: a liar. I am not delusional, or a deranged attention-whore. I do not make up stories to make people like me, feel sorry for me, or be jealous of me. I don’t need to, because I don’t give a damn what people think of me. I don’t define myself by how others view me, and I never will.
I don’t need absolution to tell me when something is real. I don’t need to parade around my boyfriend so that other people will be convinced of his existence. And I sure as hell don’t need to subject myself to the psychological torture that some people call friendship, just so that I have people to go to the movies with. Guess what? Unlike some people, I don’t mind going to the movies alone. And unlike some people, I can have a private relationship without having to provide evidence to "concerned" individuals.
I’m sorry that I’m not a self-absorbed slut, or a flamboyant, wannabe-punk who tries desperately to hide his homosexuality by falling in love with a girl who will never love him back. I’m sorry that I don’t cast stones upon my supposed friends the second that they are the most vulnerable. I’m sorry that I don’t deal with my grief and hatred in a timely fashion. I’m so sorry that it took me over two years to detach myself from the venomous trollop that was supposed to be my best friend. But you know what? I’m better for it. Unlike some people, it bothers me to pretend that everything is okay, when it really isn’t.
If I ever had a piece of wisdom to impart on anyone, it would be this: be very careful who you tell personal information to. Even when you think that you can trust someone more than your own family, there is no guarantee that they won’t stab you in the back.
Would you like to know some other words to describe me: jaded, distrustful, wary, cold, spiteful, vindictive. Guess what? There are people who made me this way. I am not always a bright ray of sunshine, who can laugh everything off. There are some things that don’t roll off of my shoulders like water. I am human, and if you cut me, I do bleed. When you hurt me, I cry. When you piss me off, I scream. And when you sit there like the smug little bastards that you are, be happy that I have a modicum of respect for your parents, that I wouldn’t hurt you like you’ve hurt me.
I am not a nice person. I generally don’t have a problem with this, because I am very good at putting on a smile, and pretending that everything is okay. But sometimes, I just don’t have the energy to care about other people’s feelings.
How many of us have experienced this? How many of us have been betrayed by those closest to us? How many of us have loved with our whole hearts, only to have them stomped on callously and with more malice than anyone could have thought possible? How many of us have dug our nails so far into our palms that we’ve drawn blood, just to thump down the urge to inflict the appropriate amount of physical pain to ease our emotional pain?
There are days when I can actually look back on my past and smile, and think about the good times that we had together … but those days are few and far between.
I am not a liar, I am not delusional, and I am not an attention-whore. What I am, is a fighter. If I hadn’t actually matured over the last four years, I might be inclined to use this all-consuming rage and rip you apart piece by piece until your screams of mercy have appeased me. No, I’ve matured since then. I am also a writer, and what would be inappropriate - and illegal - to say with my fists, I am more than happy to say with my words.
I will never forgive you, and if I never see you again, it will be too soon.
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