The best time to write about someone you live with has to be when they aren't even around, right?
Rewind to last year.
My initial trip to England was decided upon reconnecting with a distant relative of mine on Facebook. He and his family has visited our neck of the woods back when we were in our early teens, and after several conversations involving catching up on life (he was since married, and had a little boy; I felt old), we joked about me coming to visit England. My British grandmother had passed away, and oddly it felt like a nice homage to her; the cousin's grandmother and mine were sisters, and he still lived in the city they grew up in. Eventually the joking around became, "no, really, you should come visit", and ever the adventurer, I concurred. In a joking motion, I told him I was going to add every male on his friends list to mine, so that I could pick out my birthday gift of course (as I would be spending the celebratory day in his country). With his amused compliance, I did just that; several unknown men were added to my tiny Facebook page, based entirely on my opinion of their single profile picture.
One of those happened to be a sales engineer/drummer in my cousin's band; yes, the jackpot for any self-respecting female - a musician with a day job. I was in love before he even accepted my friend request.
We began talking in that dreadful little pop-up chat window during my painfully long evening shifts at work. As it turned out, we were both fresh out of relationships that ended badly, and seamlessly our conversations became nightly ritual. We would talk for hours about music, films, our travels, and it was much easier to get over our ex's with the help of someone who wasn't physically around to complicate things further. With that, I booked my plane tickets. At least there was one seemingly good catch in all of the UK, I thought; clearly there would be thousands where he came from, and I was a single woman on a mission.
That is, until his Facebook status changed one day from 'Single' to 'In a Relationship'. I was angered, and truthfully considered refunding my flights until I realised how entirely pathetic that would have been - who in the hell cancels a vacation because a random guy from the Internet has a girlfriend, anyway? So off I went in July, prepared to ignore him for two weeks while snogging every male with a side-bang in sight.
It didn't exactly turn out that way, and by the end of my first week in the country we were bouncing on a trampoline in the middle of the night after my 'birthday night out' with the girls, soaking with rain and laughing until our sides hurt.
We've been inseparable ever since.
He visited Canada twice after my vacation ended, and by December I was quite certain he would be worth the relocation to the UK.
Luckily, I was right, and we got engaged one day before our one year anniversary, which happens to also be my birthday (it was impossible to say no - he put the ring in a bag of McDonald's breakfast).
As it stands, things are working out. I found a great job after three hellish months of being unemployed, during which time The Boy got me a dog (who I will write about at another time - there is no way that circus animal story can fit in this entry), and we're now planning our wedding (which WILL take place back on home soil) and waiting impatiently for Christmas in Canada.
This country drives me to the brink of insanity at times... but he makes it worth it.
He even makes up for the gigantic goddamn house spiders.
Friday 9 April 2010
Addiction; being abnormally tolerant to and dependent on something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming.
Hi. My name is August, and I have an addiction.
In my 25 short years on this earth, I've known people with a wide variety of addictions. I've had a crush on a hockey playing alcoholic. My best friend was a quiet nymphomaniac. I dated the biggest prescription drug addict the island I come from will likely ever see. Myself? Outside of my strange adoration for all things caffinated and my cigarettes, I'd never really thought myself a true addict; all of the addicts I knew had habits for things that were self damaging. At 23, I realized I had a worse addiction than all of them combined.
The most serious relationship I'd ever had prior to The Boy was the notorious Musician; a messy-haired, guitar playing brilliance who proved in the end that genius does border on some insanity, on both of our parts. He was beautiful, and his music stopped my heart in my chest, and the need to keep him, in spite of his humanistic flaws, overshadowed every other aspect of my life. By the time we came to an ugly and hostile end, I'd lost everyone. The social circle I had been such an active part of prior to our relationship wanted nothing to do with me; my own best friend told me that we made each other volatile, and I had to choose between my heart and my pseudo-sister. I chose him.
Luckily, she didn't really mean the part that went, "if you get out of my jeep, we're done."
Like Frodo and his seemingly imbecilic 'ring of power', I was willing to sacrifice any and everything for an entity that made me miserable. Why? Because he loved me, and I had to be special if someone like him; someone who made perfect music and had perfect hair, could love me. Why? Because I was obsessed with being his girlfriend. I was hooked on having a real 'starving artist' in my corner, writing songs about me and making me feel important.
Because I was addicted to it.
Eventually, like most addicts, I hit my own version of rock bottom; crying in my car in his driveway, with the bags he'd packed for me in my backseat and my birthday cake/dinner still sitting, untouched, in his kitchen. Then came months of a vigorous self-appointed rehabilitation, which involved rebuilding my social life and desperately trying to find another person to make me feel as good as The Musician had. After a slew of other musicians, jocks, and random hospital workers (I thought a boyfriend with a career would be a good upgrade) failed to make me weak in the knees, I discovered my real problem.
Relying on other people to make me feel important.
That is what brought me to England in the first place; the need to disappear on my own, somewhere no one knew me but myself. England was my Betty Ford Clinic for 2 weeks, where I learned that I was strong enough to kick my habit back at home.
Ironically, in doing so I met the real boy of my dreams.
His story is much sweeter, and therefore saved for his own post. He deserves it.
My name is August. I am 2 years sober, and finally happy.
In my 25 short years on this earth, I've known people with a wide variety of addictions. I've had a crush on a hockey playing alcoholic. My best friend was a quiet nymphomaniac. I dated the biggest prescription drug addict the island I come from will likely ever see. Myself? Outside of my strange adoration for all things caffinated and my cigarettes, I'd never really thought myself a true addict; all of the addicts I knew had habits for things that were self damaging. At 23, I realized I had a worse addiction than all of them combined.
The most serious relationship I'd ever had prior to The Boy was the notorious Musician; a messy-haired, guitar playing brilliance who proved in the end that genius does border on some insanity, on both of our parts. He was beautiful, and his music stopped my heart in my chest, and the need to keep him, in spite of his humanistic flaws, overshadowed every other aspect of my life. By the time we came to an ugly and hostile end, I'd lost everyone. The social circle I had been such an active part of prior to our relationship wanted nothing to do with me; my own best friend told me that we made each other volatile, and I had to choose between my heart and my pseudo-sister. I chose him.
Luckily, she didn't really mean the part that went, "if you get out of my jeep, we're done."
Like Frodo and his seemingly imbecilic 'ring of power', I was willing to sacrifice any and everything for an entity that made me miserable. Why? Because he loved me, and I had to be special if someone like him; someone who made perfect music and had perfect hair, could love me. Why? Because I was obsessed with being his girlfriend. I was hooked on having a real 'starving artist' in my corner, writing songs about me and making me feel important.
Because I was addicted to it.
Eventually, like most addicts, I hit my own version of rock bottom; crying in my car in his driveway, with the bags he'd packed for me in my backseat and my birthday cake/dinner still sitting, untouched, in his kitchen. Then came months of a vigorous self-appointed rehabilitation, which involved rebuilding my social life and desperately trying to find another person to make me feel as good as The Musician had. After a slew of other musicians, jocks, and random hospital workers (I thought a boyfriend with a career would be a good upgrade) failed to make me weak in the knees, I discovered my real problem.
Relying on other people to make me feel important.
That is what brought me to England in the first place; the need to disappear on my own, somewhere no one knew me but myself. England was my Betty Ford Clinic for 2 weeks, where I learned that I was strong enough to kick my habit back at home.
Ironically, in doing so I met the real boy of my dreams.
His story is much sweeter, and therefore saved for his own post. He deserves it.
My name is August. I am 2 years sober, and finally happy.
Thursday 8 April 2010
It's around that time for a boring and mindless update about life in the UK since my last relevent post, and luckily I have a short amount of time to kill before The Boy gets home from work (and I begin slow-cooked streaky bacon, eggs and toast - the Canadian breakfast/supper).
Job hunting here is likely the most difficult task I have ever taken on. It seems that merit is giving for acheivements in the workplace, not so much for duties performed. As a Canadian who has spent years cultivating a list of 'look how important and entrusted I am' duties on paper, this came as a bit of a shocker and left me reassessing my entire career history to date over several days (and dozens of cigarettes and cups of Sainsbury's finest). Having now rewritten and revamped my entire resume/CV and cover letter, I spent the majority of the day sending them out to as many prospective employers as humanly possible. Lets face it: I am not cut out for this housewife nonsense, and if I do one more load of laundry that I have to hang around the house to dry, I might strangle myself with a pair of boxer shorts. Fingers are crossed.
Socialising in this country, however, is the easiest aspect of living here. For a country so famous for being snooty and obnoxious, I've yet to experience the true stereotypical englishman/woman. I only wish that my liver had a slight bit more strength than it does, because after two glasses of cheap wine and lemonade I am ready for bed, not a singalong in the kitchen of "cheesey 90's tunes". All the same, I am glad I remained conscious long enough to witness a room full of Brit's belting out 'Ride wit Me'. If only these people were unemployed and bored to the point of hoovering like I have become.
That's all I've got right now. Pork and protein are calling my name, and the conservatory I am sitting in is so warm right now it is almost unfathomable.
Job hunting here is likely the most difficult task I have ever taken on. It seems that merit is giving for acheivements in the workplace, not so much for duties performed. As a Canadian who has spent years cultivating a list of 'look how important and entrusted I am' duties on paper, this came as a bit of a shocker and left me reassessing my entire career history to date over several days (and dozens of cigarettes and cups of Sainsbury's finest). Having now rewritten and revamped my entire resume/CV and cover letter, I spent the majority of the day sending them out to as many prospective employers as humanly possible. Lets face it: I am not cut out for this housewife nonsense, and if I do one more load of laundry that I have to hang around the house to dry, I might strangle myself with a pair of boxer shorts. Fingers are crossed.
Socialising in this country, however, is the easiest aspect of living here. For a country so famous for being snooty and obnoxious, I've yet to experience the true stereotypical englishman/woman. I only wish that my liver had a slight bit more strength than it does, because after two glasses of cheap wine and lemonade I am ready for bed, not a singalong in the kitchen of "cheesey 90's tunes". All the same, I am glad I remained conscious long enough to witness a room full of Brit's belting out 'Ride wit Me'. If only these people were unemployed and bored to the point of hoovering like I have become.
That's all I've got right now. Pork and protein are calling my name, and the conservatory I am sitting in is so warm right now it is almost unfathomable.
goodbye, my almost lover.
A person can attempt to sum up years of your life in 4.33 minutes.
This post is dedicated to the ghost I can finally put to rest. My days of being silently and secretly afraid for you have come to a close. For a very long time, I was afraid that I failed you - pushed and ran when I should have pulled and held. For 4.33 minutes, every single day, I was scared I'd made a mistake; not for myself, but for you, because that 4.33 minutes was soft and beautiful, begging and broken, frantic and frenetic and I could never understand why it made me feel like such a villain.
I could never understand why that 4.33 minutes haunted me like a shadow.
Our perceptions were always different. This one, however, will never reach your ears.
No matter how earth-shatteringly wonderful it feels.
This post is dedicated to the ghost I can finally put to rest. My days of being silently and secretly afraid for you have come to a close. For a very long time, I was afraid that I failed you - pushed and ran when I should have pulled and held. For 4.33 minutes, every single day, I was scared I'd made a mistake; not for myself, but for you, because that 4.33 minutes was soft and beautiful, begging and broken, frantic and frenetic and I could never understand why it made me feel like such a villain.
I could never understand why that 4.33 minutes haunted me like a shadow.
Our perceptions were always different. This one, however, will never reach your ears.
No matter how earth-shatteringly wonderful it feels.
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