i’m a writer.

Content warning: suicide, paragraphs 2, 3, 4, and 9.

My Dad called just now to see if I wanted to go to the CultureCrawl with him. Of course, Dad. I’ll go with you.

He’s reading this sentence now, wondering if I’m going to call him out on something he’s done in his past. Dad, you are a wonderful dad. Do I talk about you in therapy? Yes but I don’t want you to feel bad about that. I talk about Mom too. But mostly, I talk about myself. Obviously. Without therapy, I wouldn’t be alive (also love, family, weed and meds, and cats). We don’t talk about that though, you and I. I am now because I want other people to know they’re not alone. If I failed, they can too.

We don’t have to talk about it. It’s okay. I don’t mind you thinking that I’m just as stable-minded as you. It’s nice. One of my past colleagues told me that he’s never had a headache. I was speechless. How can someone never experience a headache? I have a headache at least once a day. It must be so hard for him to fully understand what a headache feels like. He might never find out.

What’s it like not having intrusive thoughts? To have a brain that doesn’t spiral into nothingness so quickly you don’t even realize you’re crying or frozen in place? What’s it like not having written that note?

Why am I writing this? Is it some sort of public catharsis? I’m compelled to write about it. I’m driven to sit at my desk and type whatever comes to mind. It’s raw and vulnerable and makes people angry with me sometimes. And yet, here I am.

I’ve volunteered for the Surrey International Writers’ Conference for 4 years now and every year I get asked what I write. What am I writing? What am I working on? I have a blog, I say sheepishly. What’s it about? I don’t know, me? Typography and storytelling. I guess? Calling out my family on their past regressions? I didn’t say that last part. Don’t worry.

Usually, I come away from the weekend newly inspired and energized. The workshops spoke to me in some way. This year was a bit different. I loved being there, seeing everyone again, and meeting new people. Watching others be inspired. It’s always magical. It still was but not in a writing way for me. Except when I sat in a workshop about changing your writing style and still keeping your current readers. The instructor said emphatically,

“You’re not an aspiring writer, if you write, you’re a writer.”

Susanna Kearsley

I feel like she was staring directly at me when she said this. She wasn’t but that’s okay. I felt it. So now what? I can’t just pretend I’m not this. I can’t just pretend I don’t have a mental illness(es) either. I can’t just pretend I’m normal. I should say I can’t keep pretending. Instead of feeling inwardly uncomfortable, I now make other people uncomfortable. I’m still learning. Imagine me but with grace. How does she look?

If you have intrusive thoughts, you’re not broken or a bad person. You don’t need or deserve to suffer through them. Please speak to someone you trust about them.

Talk Suicide Canada – Hours: Available 24/7/365 for calls; 4 PM—12 AM ET for texts; Languages: English, French. Learn more. Phone: 1.833.456.4566 SMS: 45645

It’s a lot.

CW: Abortion

It’s all a little too much, isn’t it?

That’s what I’ve been asking myself since November 2016. I cried the night Cheetoh King was elected. How can one man cause so much destruction? What else could possibly happen? And then it just kept happening. Layers upon layers of catastrophe.

But you’re Canadian! You say.

Well, yes I am and I’m able to weep for my sisters to the south of me. I wept for them because I knew Roe V. Wade was on the chopping block. It’s surreal watching the country right next to you crumble slowly. Our foundation is showing similar cracks in Canada. We’re not free of this madness. Is the party you voted for pro-choice?

I haven’t needed an abortion. I’m pro-choice. I’m pro healthcare. Public health saves lives. Abortion saves lives. Abortion is safe. This isn’t about murdering babies, this is about restricting women and people who have uteruses. Why are we still fighting this war on people’s bodies? Why does it seem like only cishet men have body autonomy?

It’s all a little too much, isn’t it?

Consistent, I am not.

Oxford Languages says:

con·sist·ent/kənˈsistənt/adjective

  1. acting or done in the same way over time, especially so as to be fair or accurate. “the parents are being consistent and firm in their reactions”
    • unchanging in nature, standard, or effect over time. “he is their most consistent player this season”
    • compatible or in agreement with something.

If you do any sort of research into being successful at social media and the digital world, one of the first steps is being consistent. Posting consistently, being online all the time, giving the people what they want. What they want changes constantly but if you’re consistent in giving it to them, you should succeed.

But what if you’re like me? A slow artist. An artist that creates only in the flows and not the ebbs. What if the ebb is much longer than the flow? The past 18 months has been one long ebb. There has been moments of flow, don’t get me wrong. I am excited about the ideas in my head. Getting the ideas out in the open is where I struggle. There’s a scene in season three of Schitt’s Creek between Moira and David talking about his penchant for big ideas and very little follow through. I don’t want this blog to collect dust while I dream of what it could be.

CortiSaul and I need to figure out a better way of being consistent even if it looks and acts differently than other people’s success.

How do you maintain consistency in your life? How do you show up every day for the things you dream of?