Poor, Poor, Beaver Blog

Here's the thing about having a blog...not updating it, doesn't mean you don't have anything to say. On the contrary, usually it means you have too many things to say.

I've felt completely smothered by words over the last few months; first waves, then just a gradual drowning; so gradual, I didn't even realise it had happened until it was too late.
So late, that the mere act of writing them all down felt completely overwhelming. I just felt, so much-too much- everything.

Everything I wrote seemed too angry, too self-pitying, too accusatory, too heartbroken. There just seemed to be a never ending flow of words. Too personal. Too mean.

I don't consider myself a cruel person; I have my moments, but I've always tried to put out into the world what I wanted back. So when things went wrong, I felt like they were going wrong on an epic scale.

I thought I had something, but I broke it somehow. I don't think I'll ever really know what I did. I'm sure there was a list. But it broke part of my heart I thought I'd forgotten. Hell, it broke something I didn't think I had to break.

I coped poorly. Which is to say I broke the rules by which I judge others so harshly. I hurt other people who cared about me, and for that, I can only hope to earn their forgiveness.

Pardon my french, but it just seemed like the proverbial clusterfuck. My friend's father found out he had terminal cancer, which in itself was horrible enough, but then he asked that I stay with him and his family while he was in hospice. Apparently he felt I'd make everybody laugh...and because I'd known him since I was eight I agreed. But it was harder than I thought hard could be. I know in the end, I made the right decision, but still. Having to speak at a funeral to a congregation of people who were only listening because the guy in the coffin told them they had to listen was very disheartening.

Then I broke a promise to somebody who'd never been anything but sweet to me; the shame I felt just added to the guilt I was already feeling about everything else. So the cycle continued.
I hurt, and my hurt spilt over.

This is already way too long, and way too whiny and full of self pity. I apologise to everyone who has read until the end, but thank you for listening.

Essentially a Post Where I Whine. Alot.

Sometimes, late at night, when it's just me and my computer, I find myself asking the questions I'd never dream of asking during the day. At the end of the day, I know the answer though, and the answer breaks my heart.

Even trying to get them out now is harder than it should be.  These last few weeks have been incredibly difficult for me. The beginning of the month marked a very important date to me, even if it went completely unnoticed by others. I lost somebody very dear to me, and for the first time, though I'd never so much as hinted at needing support before, I felt very alone.

Mid month would have been my ten year anniversary with the Big Green, and though I haven't regretted leaving it for more than a minute, all that I'd turned my back on stung a little.
Then last week I received another blow about my seemingly never ending health saga, and when I reached out, which in itself is a rarity, I found myself systematically shut out.

You know when one thing feels like it leads to another, and another and another? Suddenly I felt completely overwhelmed by everything. It felt like my meticulously constructed, safe little life was crumbling and I was powerless to stop it.

My husband, bless his goofy aspie heart, tried. He really tried. But he couldn't give me back what I felt was lost.
So I sit, musing, writing, musing.
I'll cry later.

London Lament

A few weeks before my scheduled trip to London, an unexpected parcel arrived in the mail; in it, I found gifts from a person I'd never met. At the time, I was distraught at missing out on all the fun everyone seemed to be having, so you can imagine the utter shock I felt, opening the box to discover this:

Holding something this tangible, made the anticipation so very real to me, I hardly wanted to speak about my trip in case speaking of it, somehow caused it to be taken away.

I have been back in Montreal for nearly two weeks and have started to write this more times than I care to count. Truthfully, I started to write it that Friday night after the play, but found the experience too emotional, too personal.

My week in London, was, for lack of a better word, magic. It may sound cliché, in fact, I know it sounds cliché, but that’s how it felt.

I had the opportunity to meet wonderful people, see beautiful sites and be a small part of something I’d dreamt of for nearly half a year. In a nutshell, that’s the problem. Putting so much emphasis on something, and using it as a touchstone, is a dangerous game.

Truthfully, I’m not going to bother with the intimate details of the trip, for they are mine, and I’m not going to name drop to justify my place in the fandom. I’m not even going to review the play. I was blessed to be able to see it on two occasions, and both performances were refreshingly different and deeply captivating.

Moments sparkled. I felt peace for the first time in years. I told myself the trip was a gift to myself, but it was oh so much more than that. Even now, I find myself unable to fully articulate what I want to say. How much I want to say thank you. I don’t consider myself an emotional person, but I find myself fumbling to find the words I need to express the myriad of feelings in my heart.

"Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for.”~ Epicurus