I met the Lebanese version of myself. She talked way too fast, shared way too much private information, and was endearing. I chuckle. She was a humming bird. Jumping from subject to subject, lowering her voice when saying things she knew were politically incorrect with eyes darting everywhere. I don't think she breathed let alone paused between the vast array of subject matter covered-relevant only to herself of course. And she was terrified to commit to renting my parking spot. Her nervousness was so obvious, the terror of making a decision was evident as her eyes even watered at the idea of choosing something so simple. She apologized profusely for not being able to decide and explained with too much detail how and why she's like that. Her attire-stylish, with what I am sure was toothpaste dribbled on the front of her quality-made coat. :)

I can't express the...glee? (Can I say glee? It's such a silly word for such a silly thing), but really glee in the encounter. Since meeting her, she has already texted me saying she's changed her mind and decided to take the space, and I'm certain the anxiety she's having over it is going to keep her up all night and she will end by calling or texting me tomorrow to over-apologize for changing her mind yet again. And yet with her, it's ok. She's a good person considering the needs of others over herself, to the point of ridiculousness.

My friend Alexandra once blogged, questioning how the world perceived her. It thoroughly intrigued me and has stuck in my head for years. I hadn't considered that people would actually see me differently than what I thought I had portrayed, that my intentions or personality could be misunderstood-(I've always kind-of walked with my head in the clouds, hence not making those considerations). Since then, I have been over-aware of the impression others leave and try to determine if my impression is comparable. Often the people I don't like, k let me re-phrase, can't stand, are usually people I've decided I must come across the same as. And that usually just ends up crippling me even more as I'm terrified to annoy someone to the extent that those people annoy me.

Meeting my Lebanese version has been water to my parched ego. I liked her. She was a tornado of words, juggling a world of things and expectations, so deeply involved in herself and her crazy world she forgets that no one else is in her head with her. That certain words or actions or segues must not be left out as those around her will just be lost. But not angrily lost or annoyed lost, but intrigued lost at this funny creature who talks way too fast, who thinks way too much and who should perhaps try yoga.

My perspective has been dizzingly near-sighted. A child with it's nose pressed to the T.V. exhausting it's sight. Staring close, seeing only the minuscule details that the grand picture is lost on the tiny viewer.

Who would have thought my French classes could evoke such revolutionary realizations and awakenings. Niveau 4 with it's "changement de professeurs" so too the style and the approach to the delivery of grammatical structure and vocabulary. I went from dragging my feet through wrist-slitting childish games used to aid in the memorization of useless scripted dialogue one would never use to mind-hurling philosophical discussions of hopes and dreams and how Arabic music makes us feel. This school is schizophrenic with it's teachers and methods. I feel not much different than my 14 year old self and the time I spent the summer visiting my aunt and her bi-polar mental condition.

I really wish teachers didn't insist on trying to make learning fun. I hate these games, these wastes of my time. And then bring in the teacher whose trying to make learning fun AND meaningful. ugh. These last few classes I've been feeling I somehow tripped into career and life-counseling 101. I don't have answers for most of the questions asked, let alone in finding a way to say it in French. Questions pertaining to who we are, who we'd like to be, and things needed to get there. These questions resign me and I usually end up chuckling to myself as I play out in my head the classes response to how I'd really like to answer them. Anyways... I don't even know what provoked this "epiphany" of perspective, but it hit me strongly during class. I am so focused on the tiny details of my life that I'm going nowhere. I have no big picture. And it's only making time go by with no new results in my life. Perhaps I've been waiting for circumstances to direct and change my path. It's sort of what dragged me through 2010. I left the choices to be made by what was happening around me, I was just the ping-pong ball being swatted at by a billion of those little rackets. Now I just feel beat up-and lost in a dark corner under somebodies couch. Most likely to be drooled on by that somebodies cat. ;)

There's a hole in our life which only poutine from a mall kiosk served on greased-soaked cardboard plates can fill. Or so I told myself as I chose to forget the all-ready prepared salad I had waiting for me at home in my fridge. It wasn't the first time I dined like this on a Monday in the sous-sol of a shopping centre on a twirly swivel chair which apparently requires a stronger core than I seemed to possess. (Insert moment to ponder the irony of the strong core needed to feed on hot dogs and poutine-those who some-what know me, know of my some-what weird obsession with pointing out true examples of irony and mentally shoving it in Alanis' face as apparently she didn't...like rain on your wedding day? Sorry Alanis, that's just bad luck).

The moment was a perfect clichéd stranger-at-bar-whisky-drowning-his-sorrows moment. It came complete with the aforementioned bar-stools and a compassionate ear behind the counter mopping the bar of it's ketchup and mustard left from previous clients. I love those moments when I'm perfectly alone. When it's just me. When my choices affect nobody else. There's a calm that settles and I relax. I was relaxed and open to what-ever came my way, and it lead to a most curious getting-to-know-the-Chinese-lady who served me my poutine and coffee. Even the coffee moment had a "Cheers-y-ness" in it (the "where everyone knows your name"), as I was delivered a perfect, "tired eh?" after accepting the coffee offered. I could have been in some sort of a Western movie, only my bartender was a 30-something Chinese woman specializing in fountain pop. We talked in glass-half-empty adages, covered the weather, the economy, and the difficulty for the Montraélais, with the forever growing high taxes and fees on everything and how even the poutine and hot dog industry's not recession-proof these days. I learned the fundamental differences between the Chinese in Vancouver and the Chinese in Montreal. I shared a bit of my life, she shared me hers with photos of her family. It was a pleasant moment.

I have so few of those moments as I care way the hell too much of what everyone wants and thinks of me. I can be sitting in the metro-train worried that I should have given my seat to someone else, or that I'm blocking someone on the sidewalk from getting around me. And these are just strangers, let alone my concern for the well-being of acquaintances, friends and family (in all actuality, my family gets pretty shafted on that level). My whole life has been an apology for taking the space perhaps better suited for somebody else. I apologize when stepped on, and for having to finish my thoughts in long-winded sentences. I think it's also why I talk so fricken fast, to avoid the person I'm speaking toos' discomfort of having to listen to me.

I'm forever trying to be one step ahead, gauging the ease and dis-ease of the person I'm with, that I'm never actually present in a situation. The amount of unseen and unnecessary pressure I put on myself is I'm sure equal to Wall Street trading and what makes me break down at the most awkward and odd moments-like unassuming french oral exams. I don't know why I'm like this, well, I have a few ideas, but by 33 I should really have put most of this behind me by now, but I am, and it's probably the reason strangers tell me to relax, or that I should try yoga. Yoga I have tried, relaxing and breathing deeply I have tried, but really nothing has on what dining alone, pressure free, in a food court has-msg, cholesterol and all. And on that note I think I'd better head for a run.

I've received some unexpected encouragement with my writing which is really appreciated and pushing me to continue to make public my sorry, pathetic, and like-watching-paint-dry life. (I'm impressed that I'm finding such enjoyment in the act). It inspired me to write my latest entry which continued to garnish even more incredible encouragement. So thank-you everyone for taking an interest and your comments are all so appreciated.

Through-out my school years writing was this thing that seemed to hover and lurk around me. I felt labelled as "one who must write" early on by my community and teachers. The expectations I felt for achievement grew on me each year as I continually did especially well at written and creative projects. My work would often be entered in contests accomplishing a win of some sort, and when one is from a community of only 300 people, it's A) not a difficult thing to out beat competition and B) the tiniest of accomplishments not only get noticed but printed in the paper and celebrated by everyone, which has both positive and negative affects. Our town was so desperate to have its yellow-y pages of the Veteran Eagle filled that it didn't take much more than not missing a single day of school to get your name and picture printed on the front of it's page. That was definitely not an accomplishment of mine however-a perfect attendance, I rarely made a week with out not missing a day. I digress.

Whether these school-year achievements of mine (should one call them achievements) are an actual reality or just a miscued perception made by myself (and of course my mom), I seem to recall being in that paper lots, winning awards upon awards, year after year. (As a side note, I do however take very little credit as any successes I may have had are solely due to the highly competitive nature fostered in me by my dear father, (through the constant and necessary proving of my betterment over the "boy-child"), and my extremely doting and talented mom who was invested 110%behind all my endeavors-oh and we might as well toss in a desperate need for some sort of vehicle of escapism from crazy domestic dysfunction...some had drugs, some cut themselves, I had science fairs and poetry contests to win).

The thing about doing well in school when you're young is that it's, well, 100% not cool, and you risk getting beat up and shoved in lockers-Ok I don't think that ever happens outside of Saved by The Bell. I never did have to get intimate with any lockers or beat up, I was forced instead into a delicate juggle of feigning un-interest in the things which actually did interest me, pushing an attitude when there really wasn't one to be pushed, and of forever being disconnected from and hating the act of doing the things which I actually did well at. I programmed myself to hate writing, something I'm now realizing caused much confusion to me, it blocked me from expressing myself in a way I was actually able to express well in. It created a dichotomy of which I'm just now starting to be able to fuse together.

I've struggled with this silly struggle since child hood, the labeling of myself as a writer. Something I did well at-or so I've been told, and yet hated hated hated doing. For many adult years I pushed myself to try and do this thing I hated because I felt it was what I should do since I was kind of not bad at it and everyone told me I should-I usually do everything I'm told. It was like a chore, taking the garbage out, no enjoyment and only anger when having to do it. But this last year has been changing that. When I was beyond effed up, and amidst hair pulling craziness, writing emerged as my best friend, it was all that I could do to bring clarity to my upside down shaken world. It sorted my jumbled head, and laid out my heart in black and white when reason abandoned me and was nowhere to be found. I began to write alot this year, in a private blog I kept I allowed my pen to bleed for me and cry for me, to express for me. I wrote because I wanted to, because I needed to, and because I actually enjoyed to.

I'm finding it amazing at how little changes from my day to day. I wake, school, work, sleep. My only gauge of consciousness through these turning months is the passing "niveau(s)" of my French class. Maintenant, je suis en niveau quatre. I'm stuck, and with the exception of moving forward with this language, I have done nothing else to show the passage of time. It's almost as if I'm preventing it from being seen. I say this because here I sit on the floor in my apartment I have still not furnished from November, looking at the same clothes, and the same (lack of) bedding strewn throughout my untouched studio. On a side note, I did finally get a shower curtain-and a few dishes. Sigh. Aside from my growing dark roots (retouched every 6 weeks), the tightness in my pants largely due to the self-medication of dairy and chocolate during my morning coffee break ritual, and I suppose the subtle appearance of fine lines, there really is nothing else to differentiate yesterday from today and last month from this month. And yet I've got this stubborness which is fusing my feet to the ground keeping me from changing a thing. I don't have a bed. I still sleep on a borrowed air mattress, and there's really no explanation for that. My clothes are showing signs of wear appropriate only for 1994. Thinking that my skirt was hiding the hole in my stockings, my boss most recently stated that he wasn't employing squeegee kids at his premise. *haha*

I don't know what to do. It's an imploding downward spiral. I hesitate to push through this change I created in my life. Staying in limbo is more safe, the smallest decision: a tiny household purchase, a new season outfit, it all shouts out a committment directed on another path, a path opposite than where it was initially directed. It shows time passing with nothing in me changing and my yesterdays getting more further and further away, a worn photograph album with faded faces and forgotten names.

I can't do it-move forward that is. I seem unable to pull myself from whatever's keeping me stuck. My past, guilt, shame, my billion unanswered questions and frustrations and anger. The baby steps I do manage to make seem more like ones of those treading in mud and not really moving forward but actually just creating more mud sinking me deeper, (and then stealing my rubber boot). *another sigh* I don't think I'm as depressed as I sound, it's probably meer laziness, but what ever it is, I'm still here, sitting on the floor in my old Port Montreal studio with the burned out lightbulbs still unchanged from the previous tenant. However, my roots are growing, my pants tight and I am able to conjugate french verbes in 5 different tenses.