8 Years

It's been 2.5 years and she is still unable to express in her own words the 8 years lost that she can never get back.

Intervention-Arcade Fire

The king's taken back the throne.
The useless seed is sown
When they say they're cutting off the phone
I'll tell 'em you're not home

No place to hide
You were fighting as a soldier on their side
You're still a soldier in your mind
Though nothing's on the line

You say it's money that we need
As if we're only mouths to feed
I know no matter what you say
There are some debts you'll never pay

Working for the church
While your family dies
You take what they give you
And you keep it inside
Every spark of friendship and love
Will die without a home
Hear the soldier groan, "We'll go at it alone"

I can taste the fear
Gonna lift me up and take me out of here
Don't wanna fight, don't wanna die
Just wanna hear you cry

Who's gonna throw the very first stone?
Oh! Who's gonna reset the bone?
Walking with your head in a sling
Wanna hear the soldier sing

Working for the Church
While my family dies
Your little baby sister's
Gonna lose her mind
Every spark of friendship and love
Will die without a home
Hear the soldier groan, "We'll go at it alone"

I can taste your fear
It's gonna lift you up and take you out of here
And the bone shall never heal
I care not if you kneel

We can't find you now
But they're gonna get their money back somehow
And when you finally disappear
We'll just say that you were never here

Been working for the church
While your life falls apart
Singing hallelujah with the fear in your heart
Every spark of friendship and love
Will die without a home
Hear the soldier groan, "We'll go at it alone"
Hear the soldier groan, "We'll go at it alone"

Her Lost Independence

4 days. She has 4 days of each week to conquer the world, to learn new things, to enrich her life and the lives of those around her. She has all of everything that Montreal has to offer to see the formerly mentioned achieved. And yet, *sigh*, she knows no one to do any of those things with. Her crutch, her husband, works hours completely opposite of hers, leaving for work as she wakes, his weekend is her working days. It is so much of what she has wanted for so many years: time unhindered by any outside force. Being able to be alone. And to be able to be alone guilt-free, not having the feeling that someone dear to her is needing her time and thoughts, no one or thing being neglected due to such a selfish longing, as desiring complete alone-ness.

And complete alone-ness she has. Having always prided herself on her stark independence, her need to do everything in life without the aid of others, her ability to fill her life with duties and life's-demands to keep everyone on the sidelines looking in, she is surprised at how quickly her foundation crumbled the moment the one person invited in this life of hers was momentarily removed. She never realized how much she depended on this one person until he was no longer there. How many times she had inadvertently blamed him, even resented him, he was her scape-goat for all the dreams that she had not yet accomplished. She knows those theories are askew. She just needed someone or something to blame. She herself can't take the fall for her "lack-of". She is strong and independent. With her desire of complete alone-ness now in hand, her truth is realized, she is not that strong independent girl that she once was-who once awed her little community with all her talents and achievements. She is now half of who she and her husband are together, and without the other half, she finds it difficult, intimidating even, to simply just walk alone in this new city of hers.

She is thankful for this lonely time in her life. It is what she has deeply desired for many years, her chance to prove to herself that she is still that strong and independent girl with all the potential she had in her 1st 20 years. The startling realization of just how much of this "prized" independence she has lost has caused her to stumble a little. But she is regaining bits and bits of who she was through the tiny baby steps of simply walking out of her condo alone, of each run through the streets and parks of Montreal. Perhaps it will next be a movie, or a book in a coffee shop. But until she has conquered leaving her house with confidence and purpose, she will have to be ok for not having yet conquered the world. After-all, it really is only 4 days.

A Little Melancholy and Infinite Sadness

A friend pointed out how long it's been since her last update, and she was surprised. Her days have been full with time rushing past her. Finding the time and discipline to write on a daily basis seems impossible, and as her schedule becomes busier, she finds it difficult remembering why it was so important for her to attempt the daily practice. She re-reads what she past wrote and is embarrassed and tempted to shut out all evidence that she ever even tried to write. Holding herself to higher standards than the possessed ability, it is discouraging for her to see the reality of the level she is at. It's been a life-long issue with her, covering most details of her life. A form of perfectionism, but not exactly perfectionism. It's frozen her from attempting many things. The hatred of seeing something created or performed by herself when what she created or performed is not the best. It's an evil disease. Mixed with a very undisciplined life, she has plateaued and has not achieved many new things. The fact that she continues to write, displayed for her world to see is a testament of some growth. A more mature view that only time and practice and dedication to the art is what makes a person great is becoming more a part of her thinking than the former expectation that it should just magically "happen".

She's always admired people who could learn in the open. When she danced, she is certain no one knew the torture she endured with each practice, each performance. The freedom of being able to express in dance and shut the world out is like no other thing, but she had early in life sabotaged herself from ever allowing herself to commit to becoming a good dancer. Having decided that since she was less "skilled" or had less "technique" than her contemporaries, her philosophy in such instances was always that it is better to fail from not trying than to try only to discover mediocrity.

There was nothing more hated to her than mediocrity. A far reaching pendulum of extremes, settling for average in anything was worse for her than failing miserably. She would prefer a "D" in assignments over a B. Even an A- was ego bruising, as it showed that she tried hard and yet still did not come out at the very top.

She's in her 30's now, and this mind set is finally dissipating. She's now allowing a more true reflection of herself to stare back at her. She is not only more forgiving to this, but also embraces it.

...and she continues to write.

Poor Shrinking Brain

Mentally exhausted, she discovered today her poor 31-year-old brain, which has always served her quite proud in the past, is no spring chicken. It was one of those "mirror gazing" days, one where one pulls, pokes and thoroughly investigates themselves to discover just how far they have let themselves slide. An over-done scene in movies, it's the one right before the hero or heroine fervently wish they were their younger self-or someone else, only to fall asleep to find upon waking that not only was there some fantastical storm, but also that their wish came true. Of course we all know the storyline after that, narrated with an over abundance and not really funny slap-stick humor and mediocre acting, the star of the show quickly learns their needed life-changing lesson and tries desperately to revert back to their plain and old self with their new-found morals and happy-to-be-me feelings in tote.

In her situation; however, there was no wrinkle counting, flab jiggling, or cellulite hating, just a strong realization during her first language lesson that her brain hurt. As if she sprained or overextended it. It wasn't ready for the mental calisthenics she decided to just throw it into. Poor shriveling brain, it didn't even know what was coming. During those 2 measly hours, it became an overstuffed backpack with an owner insistent on cramming 5 more items that physically the laws could not allow fit. Excess information bulging, tearing at the seams of her ears and pressuring her eyes, she's certain an inevitable tear is slowly letting loose each new piece of "parler francais" information that she paid to learn, like a tiny hole in a bean bag chair-only you don't realize that there is a hole until you sit in it and plunk flat on the ground with bean-bag stuffing shooting haphazardly away from you in all directions.

A new compassion for ADHD sufferers becomes her-she understands now. She's sure she nodded at the right times, maybe even repeated the appropriate things back, but the whole experience is nothing but a haze. She has notes with no remembrances of how they got there. She does recall a few occasions towards the end of her one-on-one tutor-age where she caught herself just staring blankly at the guy, realizing that an answer was due and she was clueless that he was even speaking. Her poor brain would then scramble to figure out what he had just spoken to her-which was to her brain a sprint after an already uphill marathon. It was pure exhaustion.

So she's not sure if today was a success or not. Phil told her that when learning a language you are supposed to to try and forget everything you learn, to relax and when you need it, it will all come back...if that's the case then she's sooo ahead in this game as she doesn't even have to TRY to forget, it's forgotten whether she wants it to be or not!

The Whys to Montreal

The last few months, the word "unhinged" has frequently been used (by herself) when describing her life. Her life has been anything but cookie-cutter, and the pieces to this puzzle have not been fitting together. It's like someone dumped 2 or 3 puzzles into a box and the creator of this puzzle (seemingly a 3 year old) is determined to make the pieces fit even though one piece is part of a red ball of wool being played with by a cute fluffy kitten, and the other a piece of an hot air balloon. She is hoping that none of the pieces have been lost, broken, drooled and chewed on-as is the fate of most puzzles pieces at the hand of an ambitious toddler.

One of her challenges with living in Montreal is remembering the whys. There are so many strong arguments opposing this move, the loudest sometimes being her pride-dampening 10-hour-long graveyard shifts waitressing at a near-by diner; as well as, the responsibilities of a life just upped and left almost a year ago, with email after email brimming with another unexpected expense-the latest being the carport of her once loved home falling down and in bad need of an expensive and most-likely ugly quick fix.

The logic of the move to Montreal may not be sound to those looking in, (especially to her doting mom). She herself admits she too has struggled most strongly, and has been enticed many times to simply return to the life well known to her in beautiful (and warm) British Columbia. Many times she has convinced herself that the mistakes she made in the past, be-it with relationships or business, would not be remade, and she'd return a stronger and smarter and more business-savvy girl. But then her WHY'S are recalled-sometimes they come simply and easily like a well-worn and loved memory or other times more poignant by a husband with a slightly stronger grasp and remembrance of how things really were. No matter how they are recalled, but that they are recalled, is what's important. And so here are the current WHYS of why she stays in Montreal as well as a few future goals she is hoping to have achieved from this city:

1. TO GO FROM CANADA TO ARGENTINA ON A MOTOR-BIKE NEXT AUGUST.
note: living in Montreal really is not helping with this goal, it actually brings more hurdles than if she were to stay in BC, the biggest one being the Quebec motorcycle license laws. BUT that goal puts a time limit on their life for the next 10 months making it unreasonable to do many of the other things she would deem more productive with her time, like a business venture or school, or relocating to another more exotic place-say being neighbors to much missed friends in the Cayman Islands.

2. LEARN FRENCH
hopefully self-explanatory

3. PAY DOWN DEBT LOAD
note: entry level job positions may not be the most efficient for this, but, it is more efficient than say, living in the South of France with no job. You'd also be rather surprised at how generous the inebriated McGill student can be with their student loan money and tipping.

4. PURCHASE A CONDO IN THEIR BUILDING
note: they've never owned a condo before, and it may not be the best investment when it comes to real estate, but there are no lawns to be maintained, carports to be backed into and damaged, hot-water tanks or furnaces to be replaced, sidewalks to shovel...and the location of the building is superb, the condo's brand new and beautiful, and they would of course be paying less than rent and it is still an asset.

5. PURSUE SECONDARY EDUCATION
note: one of Canada's best schools is in Montreal and the Quebec reward fellow Quebecers by giving them lower tuition at their universities, how to be an official Quebecer? One must have a lease agreement, or medicare at least 1 year before beginning courses.

So there, the small list which helps her remember that there is some wisdom and responsible reasoning for staying in this great city. Now as to the HOW she got to be in Montreal in the first place, well that is a much longer and a much more confusing list.

Diner Dash

With her love affair with the Toshiba waning, and Phil at work, she decided on the most novel of ideas: to go for a walk. She had realized while sitting alone on her couch that she hadn’t really done anything that day to remotely scrape together a blog entry. Her morning routine not actually beginning until noon, coupled with her fear of the next day: a “work” day (she really only has 3 of those a week, but those 3 days are, in her defense, evil days which have her beginning her job at 7pm and not returning her home until after 5am, all the while serving drunken university students milkshakes, poutine and scalding hot soup…oh, and throw a few patriotic French-Speaking Quebecois into the mix with sole life-missions to make the life of the non-French-speaking waitress extremely difficult) leaves her with an evening free to reflect on all the things she didn‘t do.

Work days are feared days. And she has every right to be incapacitated by the very thought of them. The strongest of you would resort to the comfort of the curled and rocking fetal position; driven to it by the smallest reminisce of the chaos called her job, of the billion people flooding in and out of those diner doors for the abundance of cheap and quickly prepared pizzas and pitas and poutines-and NEVER getting kicked out for being too intoxicated to stand. (Oh, and for the more discerning of gastronomic tastes, try the Souvlaki or our Rib Steak, might we recommend our house red? (It's our only red) It is full-bodied with an oaky taste-oh wait, that might just be the taste of the cardboard seeping through).

It’s not only the confusion endured for each hour as she leaps over communication obstacles such as the French language with her patrons, or the Greek, and Hindi accents in the English of her bosses and co-workers, (she does wonder what her French will sound like if it’s getting it’s foundation from this motley crew of 1st generation Canadians), but also the screaming pain her legs and arms and body retire in.

As she spends the first day or so recovering from her 3 days of what can only be explained as Karma paying her back for how badly she treated her brother, and at least a couple of days leading up to those 3 foreboding ones preparing both mentally and physically for it’s next round of battering, it is a marvel that, that on the eve of her work day, she would find the bravado to face Friday night Montreal and the slow mob of funneled pedestrians through what seems to be an endless maze of scaffolding stuffed along Rue St Catherine. The "maze of scaffolding" she can't help but think as being a deliberate gesture of irony from the city of what it's seemingly not, if measured by foot-pace that is: a rat race.

She nor Phil have been able to figure out the oddity of the Montrealer's walking pace. For being "technically" Canada's largest city, a business, cosmopolitan and cultural landmark in North America, it's an absurdity that the average Montrealer appears to have no place to go. Dressed in well-fitting designer suits, puffing on their cigars, they show this fact to each other as they stroll at a snails pace up and down one of it's biggest thoroughfares. It's an anomaly. The whole experience of trying to get from point A to point B-especially if one is needing to get somewhere via that street makes running into oncoming traffic an attractive solution. This Friday night was proved to be no different, so she returned home.

With the Help of Technicolour

The T.V. proved to be just what she needed-a light distraction (well "light" being a VERY relative term). A distraction: a box to bury her "To-Do" list in. A To-Do list, which among it's proponents has not 1, but now coming up to 2 years worth of taxes (not including necessary bookkeeping work), address changes from 2, no, make that 3 moves ago (BUT in her defense, those 3 moves were all in the last 9 months-God bless Canada Post and it's $45 forward-mail-form ($59 with taxes)). Also on that list is the everyday "don't-even-bother-crossing-off's"; the items which seem to make their appearance to the list each day but never do get done: make the bed, clean the house, take the garbage out, buy groceries, find a French Tutor...finding the French Tutor thing should have been crossed off perhaps weeks ago, as communication, especially in the service industry as a waitress is deemed in today's world somewhat important. The task however proved to be much more difficult than ever anticipated. Already she and Phil have went through 2, one having been a little bit of an emotional washboard lacking professionalism and possibly even business ethics. The latter suspicion due to her selling a compilation of photocopied textbooks and computer-burned French Language Program C.D.'s to her students. The other Tutor, charming over the phone and elegant in email, a self-proclaimed world traveler and successful international film director charged only$15/hour for his breakthrough language method. The facts just did not seem to line up. People that exciting and that successful are not usually left selling their time on Kijiji for half the going market price, and besides, he lived too far away.

So to the T.V. she went. Helping her mission to block out all past and future duties is the most wonderous invention we'll call the "swivel rod". Anchored between the concrete pillar separating her "bedroom" from her "living room", and fastened to the back of the flat screen Toshiba, it allowed her to fade from reality even when she didn't want to leave the comfort of her bed-which by the way is still unmade.

Not used to having a T.V., her immunity to the "wiles" of this devilish contraption, were non-existent. She pressed the tiny "ON" button with all guards down. This thing, this "box", this wondrous and new world where life came and went in 1 hour intervals locked away the foreboding and impending duties silently nagging the core of her every fibre. Life was so happy in T.V. land. Especially as an English speaker in Montreal receiving only the basic cable included with her condo. With channels being as equally limited as her language, her T.V. world consists of YTV and TLC. Who can be unhappy with Spongebob Square Pants blowing bubbles in Bikini Bottom and Stacy and Clint changing the world one bad dresser at a time. Taxes may not be getting done, but she at least knows what not to wear if she were to do them. And if, as her luck may have it, were to get a visit from Revenue Canada for her un-submitted taxes, perhaps they will see her in her stylish business-casual suit, and graciously waive all penalties. So really, by NOT doing her taxes, which in reality only serves as a distraction from her T.V. watching, she in the long run is solving all her problems-as long as she can find the right pointy toed shoes for her suit (apparently pointy toes elongate the leg, giving the APPEARANCE of height, which for her 5foot 1.5inch frame is exactly what is needed).