Foggy waters



  1. I've got the feeling of being scrubbed raw. A layer taken off your soul. I know, that sounds dramatic. But it's real. 
  2. Christmas is a-coming. I want to pick out gifts for the people I love but I'm damn tired. I think I'll make a Pinterest board instead. Everyone's getting gift cards! In the meantime I'll be here listening to Michael Buble's Christmas album.
  3. I love that feeling when you remember an album that feels like it speaks right to you. In lyrics, in beats, in stories. Right now it's HERE by Alicia Keys. Earbuds in, and this is like juice right to me. 
  4. Someday, I think. I'll be thriving again. What will that look like? What will that feel like? Will I have my own place? Will I have money issues? What's going to happen to me? To me and the kiddo? What will life look like? 
  5. Driving an hour each way every day. Staying with my mother. Wondering how much to say publicly. Who to tell. The word like a whisper, a crack in ice spreading. "Break-up." A tragedy some minutes. A revelation, a freedom, in others. He hasn't told anyone yet except his parents. Why not? Is this happening or is it not? 
  6. Is there hope? I don't know. Sometimes yes. Sometimes no. Will we get back together? I mean, who can tell the future? And if they could, would I believe them? 
  7.  Breathe. "Pick a word and just focus on that," or whatever the book said.
  8. The night, so dark. I get out of my car and there are no outside lights on. It is pitch black. I feel so alone. I stand in the middle of the driveway and sob. 
  9. Other times I am laughing, at movies or at tweets or at other things. Other times I am texting with close friends and it is OK. It is going to be OK. 
  10. I write here because it's my space. My writing space. "You could just keep it in a journal," says the critic in my head. Yeah, but... I've been doing that. For a month now. And I'm starting to feel ready to let people know, people other than my nearest and dearest. There is still hope we'll get back together, but there is also reality. This is my reality right now. Pregnant. Broken up. Navigating the foggy waters, seeing what life will look like. What it does look like, right now. One day at a time. And, I'm remembering, this is what I do, to get through. I write about it. (It helps that I don't think anyone reads this blog unless I specifically point them to it with a link from Instagram.)




the truth of the matter is

  1. It's 1:11 am.
  2. I am not sleeping well this past week. 
  3. I woke up hungry. Peanut butter and jelly on bread with a glass milk called me. And we're talking white-ass bread, fucking Kraft peanut butter, raspberry jelly. The suburban meal I didn't have growing up, that I'm living now.
  4. I got up. Made it. Ate it. Instagram-storied it. Made another. Ate that too. Fuck it.
  5. The truth of the matter is we're going through something. And it's not easy. 
  6. The truth of the matter is also that I'm not ready to share. That there's more to it than meets the eye. That it's private. That it's delicate. 
  7. Most importantly, that it's OK. It's OK now, and things will be OK, no matter how they turn out. I get that now. 
  8. I leak tears from time to time. This is my body processing emotion. It's OK.
  9. The way he pats my belly, says hi to the kid. Even when things are hard, there is this.
  10. I miss writing, so much. I'm going to a local writers' group on November 8th. I'm making this happen. It's important to me. 
  11. Bonus one: it's time to go back to bed now. 
  12. Bonus two: but first, this post by Mara Glatzel from May 5. I don't know what exactly in her own life and relationship she was referring to but it is speaking to me like crazy right now.

This post format is 100% inspired by Alisha Sommer's beautiful posts.

I do not want to forget

From my trip to Toronto last week:

  1. The buildings. So many buildings, some so tall you have to tip your head wayyyyy back to see the tops. So many houses, all side by side, sharing a wall or an alley. Street after street after street of them.
  2. People, people, people. Not just white people. Brown, black, Asian, Indigenous, so many different kinds of people. (It's easy to forget in mostly-white Cape Breton how many different kinds of people there are.) Subway cars full of people, sidewalks walked over hundreds of times an hour. People crossing the street in droves. People, so many, each with their own life, their own plans for the day, none of which I'll ever know. I delight in this and also am a fish out of water in this. I can pass, I can play along and pretend I am a city girl, enough to navigate the Subway. But it is also unnerving, it is not my normal. Still, I like it.
  3. A city so big and sprawling. One neighbourhood of it is the size of my town. Subways, street cars, taxis, Ubers, cars, bikes, people walking. Homes and stores and highways spooling out and out and out into the farmland beyond. Clouds overhead, grey-blue and ominous, threatening thunder later. A humid summer.
  4. Gardens, to match all the houses. Lush, spilling onto the sidewalk. Some manicured and tidy, little postage stamp lawns. Some unruly and moist. A little space is enough. People live with it, this is their life. A house ten feet wide and 50 feet long. I come home to my house in Cape Breton and feel the space of it, luxurious all of a sudden. Wide. 
  5. The way Aleena looked like a Queen in her dresses, the way all the women at the functions sparkled. Literally sparkled, from all the jewels and shiny threads on their clothes. The way each lenhga or garment had a different colour scheme and it all worked beautifully. 
  6. Niagara Falls and the mist like rain, pouring down on my and Laura's heads. I had the red poncho hood pulled down to my eyebrows and my sunglasses pulled down just enough that I could see out, but barely. My sunglasses were covered with water and there was water everywhere. The sunscreen on my face was running into my eyes. The boat was in the middle of the horseshoe of the falls and I have no idea how the Captain could see in the white froth and churning water and the mist that was not mist but pouring rain. The roar of the water, and the excited cries of all the tourists on the boat, all in red ponchos, exclaiming over being drenched, exclaiming over being right in the heart of a huge cataract of water pouring four million cubic feet of water every second. The rush of it, the energy. 
  7. How I feel when I take myself out of my normal and plop myself down in someone else's normal for a week: like anything is possible. Like all the little excuses I tell myself in the run of a day about why I do a certain thing a certain way, or why life is the way it is in Cape Breton, or about what I want to do with my life - are just that, excuses. That I can change it at any time, if I put in the effort. Sometimes the effort isn't physical, it's mental - just working to see something differently. Seeing excuses for what they are and choosing what to keep, what to let go of, what to try to change into something else. 
  8. A special dinner out with two women I have known for thirteen years, at a fancy-ass restaurant where we laughed and laughed and joked with the waiter and caught up on each other's lives and ate fancy-ass onion rings and they split a truffle.
  9. Sour candies, two couches side by side, "Insecure" and "Mistresses", laughter spilling out of us.
  10. A furry, soft, excitable, delightful dog named Harriet.