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.
Tuesday 16 March 2010
england - the third week: is this even real?
Well, it has been quite awhile. With every intention of keeping myself updating through the trials and tribulations of immigration, I found myself absorbed in a seemingly inpenetrable bubble of stress while filling out forms and attending biometrics screenings; writing took an obvious back-burner to the nervous breaking pot simmering for weeks.
The important thing is that I am here; my Ancestry visa (allowing me 5 years in the country) went through without a hitch, and I've been an expat on English soil since February 27th, 2010. I'm down to my last 2 packs of Canadian cigarettes, and the Tim Hortons tea-bag supply ran out mere days ago. This entry is going to be in simple point form; I will delve into a full entry later in the week, I hope.
The important thing is that I am here; my Ancestry visa (allowing me 5 years in the country) went through without a hitch, and I've been an expat on English soil since February 27th, 2010. I'm down to my last 2 packs of Canadian cigarettes, and the Tim Hortons tea-bag supply ran out mere days ago. This entry is going to be in simple point form; I will delve into a full entry later in the week, I hope.
- Brits drink more tea than anyone I know. That includes myself on home soil. I did not know this was possible.
- For a country notorious for its foul weather, I'm quite happy to say that England has been sunny almost every day, all day since I've arrived.
- Central heating is my enemy. The Boy has it set to turn on at specific times, none of which include 1:00 p.m. when I am waking up with frostbite.
- British 'bargain stores' (comparable to Bargain Giant, Dollarama, etc.) are nothing like ours. The items are actually of good quality, and you can decorate your entire home by spending 40 quid at Pound Stretcher... or Wilkensons... or Home Bargains.
- While duvets might not be my best friend, the variety of pretty covers and pillows that cost less than 20 pounds is mind blowing. My Canadians with a flare for decorating would go mad.
- Everyone here wears leggings and boots. I do mean everyone.
- Middle-aged women in the UK take MUCH more pride in their appearance than those back home.
- Sainsbury's chocolate chip cookies = life.
- ASDA (the UK's Walmart) makes pizza. It is the best fresh pizza you will ever eat.
- Beef in the UK, however, leaves much to be desired.
- British in-laws are not as awful as everyone seems to think. The Boy has got the cutest parents on earth.
- It still confuses me when I realize I am having a discussion with The Boy's sister (our roomate) about her day trip to Belgium. It can be visited - in one day. WTF?
- Drivers in England are the most polite people on the road. Honestly. The traffic, however, is horrendous.
- I have done more laundry since I got here than I've done in my entire life, to date.
- This country is every bit as amazing as I thought it would be.
the good; the bad; the... bad.
(Originally written Feb. 6, 2010)
Today, The Boy (with his darling little Yorkshire slur) requested a blog of his very own; one detailing, in depth, a topic we have been amusing ourselves with since we first began speaking to each other. From the comfort of his bed, self-rolled cigarette hanging from his mouth, my blue-eyed Brit cheekily ask, “Dahlin’, why don’t you write about why British men are better than Canadian men?”And because I am a woman; predictably unable to deny his precious drawl and the giggle I hear when one of us brings this up, I am obliging. This post is not a roasting of all men living in Canada and loving a Canadian woman. It is, however, a roasting of the stereotypes I have personally encountered, both myself and through my girlfriends, during my years spent dating on a tiny island in the Atlantic. For that reason alone, there will not be an apology post following.
#1: Girls, we have ruined the men here with our willingness to ‘pay separate’ each and every time we go out for dinner. In my twenty five years on earth, I’ve only had one man pay for my meal at a restaurant prior to dating The Boy; it was chicken fingers and fries at a sports bar, and it cost 10.00. We are expected to cover at least our share on most of the outings we find ourselves taking part in, so it seems. In England, I encountered the exact opposite; a look of absolute horror and insult was directed my way if I attempted to put my hand into my purse following dinner. I found in odd, and was slightly uncomfortable allowing when The Boy would pay for things, though he assures me I will get used to it. Still, I don’t think anything will ever humor me more than his face upon visiting Canada for the first time, and being asked my a waitress, “Will that be separate?”
#2: Where I presently reside (thankfully for only another couple of weeks), the men I meet seem to have a common goal: top unemployment. It is an honor amongst men to find yourself a seasonal job that will lay you off in the winter, allowing you countless hours to try out being a starving artist, or plenty of time to get high and drive around on your snowmobile. Some of the men I’ve dated have gone so far as to move thousands of miles away from here simply to take part in the bliss of living off of the government. As a woman, finding one of these rocket scientists is the jackpot - he makes $1400.00 a month by sitting on his ass, which is plenty more than you will make yourself in most positions. While visiting my cousin (and meeting my boyfriend) overseas, I sat through a conversation that astonished me. “If my job became redundant, I’d work in fast food before I’d ever go on the dole. It’s a pride thing. Sure, some people need it, but I am able-bodied and can work, and I am providing for my family.” Yes, ladies. I felt like my brain was a puddle as well. Work… Pride… Provide… those words were so very foreign to me before visiting another country. Now I find myself snickering at a recent Facebook post I saw, from a man in my town to a recently single woman: “yo, i just got my EI check, wanna go on a date?”
#3: It takes men in this country YEARS, it seems, to decide they don’t want to marry you. Or do, though that is a rare occurrence, and you must have done something drastic to make that happen. A good portion of my friends are in relationships exceeding 3 and 4 years, without any sign of long-term commitment from their men. They longingly look at wedding dresses on the internet “for other people”, spend each and every special occasion silently praying that a high-cut, yellow diamond is going to stare them in the face. Hell, I have a friend who told her boyfriend he could buy her a $14.00 ring from AVON and she’d be satisfied. Still, in all of these situations, dreams are shattered when the boys literally flee the scene… or cry… you get the point. Either way, marriage terrifies the men around here. I teased The Boy about the same ring 6 months into our relationship. His response? “Can’t I buy you a real one that just… looks like the AVON one, if you like it so much?”. Getting married and settling down young doesn’t seem to be quite as huge of an ordeal for them; it’s as simple a thought as, “I could go for another Carling. It would be rude not to.”
#4. Cooking in this province is woman’s work; then again, so is shoveling, and cleaning… and every single chore you can think of that does not involve lying horizontally on a couch. The men I’ve lived with, dated, and even a vast majority of my male friends, are the laziest species I have ever seen. They’ve spent their lives being coddled by mother’s who have done us, their wives and girlfriends, zero favors. My mother, after a full day of work, comes home and shovels the snow in our driveway. Then she goes into the kitchen to make supper for her husband (who has been home, on the couch, all day), and her son (who is 16, and have been home for hours before she arrived). If remaining on my tiny island were in my future, I would be practicing my gear changing skills on a snow-blower for the next storm.
Thank god for immigration. That is all I can really say.
Today, The Boy (with his darling little Yorkshire slur) requested a blog of his very own; one detailing, in depth, a topic we have been amusing ourselves with since we first began speaking to each other. From the comfort of his bed, self-rolled cigarette hanging from his mouth, my blue-eyed Brit cheekily ask, “Dahlin’, why don’t you write about why British men are better than Canadian men?”And because I am a woman; predictably unable to deny his precious drawl and the giggle I hear when one of us brings this up, I am obliging. This post is not a roasting of all men living in Canada and loving a Canadian woman. It is, however, a roasting of the stereotypes I have personally encountered, both myself and through my girlfriends, during my years spent dating on a tiny island in the Atlantic. For that reason alone, there will not be an apology post following.
#1: Girls, we have ruined the men here with our willingness to ‘pay separate’ each and every time we go out for dinner. In my twenty five years on earth, I’ve only had one man pay for my meal at a restaurant prior to dating The Boy; it was chicken fingers and fries at a sports bar, and it cost 10.00. We are expected to cover at least our share on most of the outings we find ourselves taking part in, so it seems. In England, I encountered the exact opposite; a look of absolute horror and insult was directed my way if I attempted to put my hand into my purse following dinner. I found in odd, and was slightly uncomfortable allowing when The Boy would pay for things, though he assures me I will get used to it. Still, I don’t think anything will ever humor me more than his face upon visiting Canada for the first time, and being asked my a waitress, “Will that be separate?”
#2: Where I presently reside (thankfully for only another couple of weeks), the men I meet seem to have a common goal: top unemployment. It is an honor amongst men to find yourself a seasonal job that will lay you off in the winter, allowing you countless hours to try out being a starving artist, or plenty of time to get high and drive around on your snowmobile. Some of the men I’ve dated have gone so far as to move thousands of miles away from here simply to take part in the bliss of living off of the government. As a woman, finding one of these rocket scientists is the jackpot - he makes $1400.00 a month by sitting on his ass, which is plenty more than you will make yourself in most positions. While visiting my cousin (and meeting my boyfriend) overseas, I sat through a conversation that astonished me. “If my job became redundant, I’d work in fast food before I’d ever go on the dole. It’s a pride thing. Sure, some people need it, but I am able-bodied and can work, and I am providing for my family.” Yes, ladies. I felt like my brain was a puddle as well. Work… Pride… Provide… those words were so very foreign to me before visiting another country. Now I find myself snickering at a recent Facebook post I saw, from a man in my town to a recently single woman: “yo, i just got my EI check, wanna go on a date?”
#3: It takes men in this country YEARS, it seems, to decide they don’t want to marry you. Or do, though that is a rare occurrence, and you must have done something drastic to make that happen. A good portion of my friends are in relationships exceeding 3 and 4 years, without any sign of long-term commitment from their men. They longingly look at wedding dresses on the internet “for other people”, spend each and every special occasion silently praying that a high-cut, yellow diamond is going to stare them in the face. Hell, I have a friend who told her boyfriend he could buy her a $14.00 ring from AVON and she’d be satisfied. Still, in all of these situations, dreams are shattered when the boys literally flee the scene… or cry… you get the point. Either way, marriage terrifies the men around here. I teased The Boy about the same ring 6 months into our relationship. His response? “Can’t I buy you a real one that just… looks like the AVON one, if you like it so much?”. Getting married and settling down young doesn’t seem to be quite as huge of an ordeal for them; it’s as simple a thought as, “I could go for another Carling. It would be rude not to.”
#4. Cooking in this province is woman’s work; then again, so is shoveling, and cleaning… and every single chore you can think of that does not involve lying horizontally on a couch. The men I’ve lived with, dated, and even a vast majority of my male friends, are the laziest species I have ever seen. They’ve spent their lives being coddled by mother’s who have done us, their wives and girlfriends, zero favors. My mother, after a full day of work, comes home and shovels the snow in our driveway. Then she goes into the kitchen to make supper for her husband (who has been home, on the couch, all day), and her son (who is 16, and have been home for hours before she arrived). If remaining on my tiny island were in my future, I would be practicing my gear changing skills on a snow-blower for the next storm.
Thank god for immigration. That is all I can really say.
when you get up&over it&over them.
My name? Not important. What is, however, notable is that I am in my mid-twenties, and a recent survivor of the often talked about ‘quarter life crisis’. The hump-years of my life were successfully conquered without the purchase of a motorcycle (that is reserved for middle-aged males), or a revolving door of men (it didn’t revolve, so to speak, though I refuse to deny it’s existence). Luckily, I am here; still living, still breathing, and perhaps with more ease than ever before.
I’ve partaken in week-long benders, and have both celebrated and suffered for them. I’ve paid thousands of dollars for an education that seemed fruitless while slaving away at my dead-end, small town job. I’ve cried over student loans and broken hearts. It’s the typical story of a twenty-something, and though it may bore you to tears, I’m going to tell you mine.
I was born in the eighties to a loving mother and a useless father (who, to this day, seems to think your children are a mistake if they aren’t in the NHL or playing Carnegie Hall). Before I was old enough to talk, my parents moved from mainland Canada to an island in the middle of the Atlantic ocean; a cold, rural nightmare at the worst of times, a quiet place of solitude during the best. I was a literary enthusiast from birth, a forced musician from the time I was toddler. I loved to read and write, and was quite good at it. I hated to play the piano, though I was even better at that for at least a decade. Piano lessons went out the window one fall afternoon when I was a sophomore (I threw my books down a man-hole and never showed up to another class again). My father was furious, and I am certain still resents me for it. However, I was graduating soon, and with an incredible GPA; there was a light at the end of my pristine tunnel.
The drunken blur that was my 2 years of university are going to remain just that; a blemish amongst others on the overall face of my twenties. Having my first taste of freedom following 18 years of living under the rule of a father I liken to Hitler himself, I vowed I would never again reside under his roof. The city, however, defeated me in the end, and I returned to the hole-in-the-wall my parents call ‘home’ with thousands in debt and zero in pride.
What followed was several years of searching for something. Booze, boys, drugs, musicians, plane and bus tickets; anything to fill the ever present and inexplicable void in my young life. I had adventures others my age could only dream of, and met people I could not have imagined, at 18, I would ever come to know. I’ve heard music that returned to me a love I’d forgotten I had for sound and words. I’ve fallen in love, and I’ve fallen down. I’ve woken up wondering if it was possible to feel so content in my life, and fallen asleep wishing my eyes would never open again.
What matters is that I lived it. Every single moment in my life, success and failure, has lead me to this moment; finishing my final weeks in that small-town job that I’ve grown to tolerate instead of despise. In July, I decided I was going on my final adventure before settling into a life of monotony and living with my parents. Two weeks in England later, I was in love with a country every bit as beautiful as my British Grandmother described it, and a boy so wonderful I find myself smiling at the mere thought of him.
It has been six months since what I had declared my ‘final adventure’, and that is where this blog will begin; my relocation to another country and another life entirely. I’ll piss and moan about customs, luggage limits, and trying to find time to work out in the midst of packing until I arrive there, I’m certain. After that? Who knows.
Wait… perhaps I’m not quite so boring after all.
I’ve partaken in week-long benders, and have both celebrated and suffered for them. I’ve paid thousands of dollars for an education that seemed fruitless while slaving away at my dead-end, small town job. I’ve cried over student loans and broken hearts. It’s the typical story of a twenty-something, and though it may bore you to tears, I’m going to tell you mine.
I was born in the eighties to a loving mother and a useless father (who, to this day, seems to think your children are a mistake if they aren’t in the NHL or playing Carnegie Hall). Before I was old enough to talk, my parents moved from mainland Canada to an island in the middle of the Atlantic ocean; a cold, rural nightmare at the worst of times, a quiet place of solitude during the best. I was a literary enthusiast from birth, a forced musician from the time I was toddler. I loved to read and write, and was quite good at it. I hated to play the piano, though I was even better at that for at least a decade. Piano lessons went out the window one fall afternoon when I was a sophomore (I threw my books down a man-hole and never showed up to another class again). My father was furious, and I am certain still resents me for it. However, I was graduating soon, and with an incredible GPA; there was a light at the end of my pristine tunnel.
The drunken blur that was my 2 years of university are going to remain just that; a blemish amongst others on the overall face of my twenties. Having my first taste of freedom following 18 years of living under the rule of a father I liken to Hitler himself, I vowed I would never again reside under his roof. The city, however, defeated me in the end, and I returned to the hole-in-the-wall my parents call ‘home’ with thousands in debt and zero in pride.
What followed was several years of searching for something. Booze, boys, drugs, musicians, plane and bus tickets; anything to fill the ever present and inexplicable void in my young life. I had adventures others my age could only dream of, and met people I could not have imagined, at 18, I would ever come to know. I’ve heard music that returned to me a love I’d forgotten I had for sound and words. I’ve fallen in love, and I’ve fallen down. I’ve woken up wondering if it was possible to feel so content in my life, and fallen asleep wishing my eyes would never open again.
What matters is that I lived it. Every single moment in my life, success and failure, has lead me to this moment; finishing my final weeks in that small-town job that I’ve grown to tolerate instead of despise. In July, I decided I was going on my final adventure before settling into a life of monotony and living with my parents. Two weeks in England later, I was in love with a country every bit as beautiful as my British Grandmother described it, and a boy so wonderful I find myself smiling at the mere thought of him.
It has been six months since what I had declared my ‘final adventure’, and that is where this blog will begin; my relocation to another country and another life entirely. I’ll piss and moan about customs, luggage limits, and trying to find time to work out in the midst of packing until I arrive there, I’m certain. After that? Who knows.
Wait… perhaps I’m not quite so boring after all.
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