Ahahaha

Several years old and yet I look the exact same – especially now with my hair this short again.

Happy New Year! How the fuck are you?! I’m actually confused by how quickly this year suddenly showed up and caught me by surprise. It was really distressing and annoying. But I do have good news.

Shortly before the holidays began, my pup Nim became really, really ill. We were quite certain that this would either be her last winter, or that she wouldn’t make it to see winter. You can imagine how heartbreaking that was for me, someone who has spent 13 years of her life making sure this pup would keep hers. My mum and I were determined that we would try every single fucking thing before we even considered calling it quits. Luckily, doing so worked. Now, granted, Nim will never be the same again. She is definitely and unfortunately on her way out. I know this. My mum knows this. Hell, I’m sure Nim knows it. But you wouldn’t guess by the way she behaves. The brat acts like a spoilt puppy again, and so she should. We have her on steroid medication, which gives her strength and helps with her pain, but eventually it will kill her liver, so it’s sort of a “which will quit first” kind of thing. It’s not a nice way to put it, I know. It sounds crude and mercenary if you stop and think about it. But it’s working. We’ve had two whole months of puppy that we didn’t think we would even have. I have cried so much with bittersweetness over this whole thing. Oh yes indeed. But no matter what, I know, it’s all worth it.

Look at this face. How could you think otherwise? I mean, unless you don’t like dogs. Then I get it.

As for me, well, you can also imagine that the health of Nim directly affects my health, and it does. Taking care of Nim now is a very intensive, hard regime, and it takes a lot out of me. My pain has increased, and my emotions and depression have been up and down. I’m having trouble right now with my doctors, and my future doesn’t seem very linear. But at least Nim is here to distract me, for now. What happens after… well, I don’t know, because I didn’t even think I’d make it this far.

This July marks the fifth year anniversary of my botched – and apparently recently discovered completely unnecessary – appendectomy, which may or may not have given me IBS-C, which now they don’t even know if I have anymore. All they know is that I’m sick and they can’t fix me. I’m basically in the same spot I was five years ago, just without a job and probably without much of a future.

So instead of dwelling on that, I read a lot. I’ve been reading a lot of atheist books, as well as Canadian novels and such. I still meditate and read Buddhism books, but I definitely aim towards the secular books, rather than the religious. Books are a joyful distraction, and they keep me sane.

I haven’t been writing at all since Nim got sick, but I think, now more than ever, I need to correct that. Look forward to a possible update over at my Scribbles page if you like short stories about swords, sorcery, and overweight female mages with short tempers.

I promise to update more. I think it will help me. I’ll try to update every Monday or something. But don’t hold me to that. I am a scatterbrain, after all.

Here’s a picture of my partner and I. Just because.

Terry and I a few years ago at AnimeNorth. I love this picture, because we are such dorks.

I’m doing it

So, despite no one saying yea or nay, I’ve decided on my own to create a sister blog to this one and write down my original stories.

Why?

Because my greatest fear is to die before I finish writing my stories out. If I can somehow manage to archive at least some of the stories I have online, I won’t have to worry about being forgotten, or, worst of all, not even trying to be forgotten.

Once the blog is up and running and has a bunch of short stories up, I’ll link it here so you can check it out. But I’ll only do it maybe once or twice, so keep an eye out!

Yep, that’s all. See ya!

To post or not to post

I’m a writer. Sort of. I’ve written over a thousand pages of stories, but save fanfiction, which is self-published anyway, I’ve never had anything published.

I know I don’t have much time left. I maybe have a decade, give or take. I don’t want to die without my stories being finished, read, and enjoyed by at least one person. But fear of rejection keeps holding me back. Fear of rejection, of being flamed, of being called a hack or a shitty writer…

But then I thought, okay. But you never even try. You have to try.

A few years ago, I once tried to write a serial online story on LiveJournal, a funny first-person fantasy that I would write on the fly with very loose notes and have the inclusion of fans in the content as it went on.

But it never caught on. No one cared. No one wanted to read it. So after a while, I stopped writing it, and no one noticed.

Recently, with my sudden increase in online writing, I’ve suddenly reconsidered. I’ve been working on a rewrite for the story for months, now, but I never thought about republishing it. I admit that if I did, I risk being plagiarised, especially since WordPress doesn’t have copyright protection on original content (I think?).

But then I noticed that there actually are writers on this website, who post their original work and become quite successful. So once again I’m struck with the idea of writing a free, web-based online serial of a story, in hopes of getting my name and style out there and thus helping me get my other stuff published, too.

So now I ask anyone who reads this: Would you be interested in seeing fiction from me? If so, can you help me find out if I’m protected? Or, better yet, spread the word and help me get a readership, so I can get input and have people reading and commenting and caring. That’d be cool.

So… Shall I jump in feet-first to the pool of online story-writing? Comment and let me know, or simply like this post as a “yes” in my favour. Dislike if you would rather me not do it.

I wouldn’t use this blog (TaraRambles) to write it, but create a new one attached to this. I would also probably update at least once a week with a new chapter, the very worst being once a month. And to get a taste of the story, it stares a plucky hero, his childhood friends a sorceress and a healer, and the main character and narrator is a dry, cynical “Reader”, hired to do a simple translation that would inevitably make an adventurer out of her, too, no matter how hard she protested.

Sounds good or bad? You know the drill. Lemme know! 😀

Fiendship

Or, How To Lose Friends and Never Get Them Back

You know, I think I’ve finally figured out what my problem is when it comes to making friends: I don’t know how to be one, so I don’t know how to pick them.

It’s stupidly simple when I think of it, really. As a child constantly on the short end of every single stick given to her, it’s no wonder that friends would fall in that category as well. Especially when I couldn’t be a friend to myself.

To fully understand this, let’s go back in time, say, a quarter of a century. Ancient times, I know. When phones barely were cordless and the internet was still hidden in the heads of its creators, I stumbled to Catholic school with my heart on my sleeve coupled with fear of the unknown. I’m a mama’s girl, and I shuddered at the thought of leaving the safety of the nest, even if for only half a day. I was barely used to the new life I had, with my mom and my sisters, and my dad barely on the side, in a new home with new everything. I’m pretty sure I had hoped to find people in the same ship, who could understand me.

And honestly, I have no real memories of that time, save a few snippets here and there, usually filled with anxiety or fear. I’m not sure what clued the kids in that I was an easy target that they could test their hatred on, but it started very early, needless to say. And I don’t know when or how I got the idea that stuffed animals were the key to happiness, but I did, and I decided that I had earned several toys that school had to offer, including a very gentle-looking stuffed dog that I still own.

Yep. I was a five-year-old kleptomaniac.

I don’t know to this day whether or not my parents or teachers caught on, and, if they did, whether my parents paid for what I stole, or my teachers felt enough pity for me to never tell them. Either way, I very often came home with stuffed dogs that weren’t mine, but I lied and said that there was a ‘toy raffle’ or some such thing, and I ‘won’ every time. Yes, I’m still that bad a liar.

Those stuffed, stolen animals were my only friends. They had names, needs, and were always loyal. I rarely left home without a toy. My family soon caught on, and to this day, I still get at least one stuffed animal for my birthday or Christmas. And I still find comfort in hugging one when I cry.

I’m not gonna lie and say that my childhood was perfect, but I’m also not gonna pretend I was a very tragic case. There are many instances on which I look back and think, ‘That could have gone another, worse, way. You got lucky.’ Even though much of what I’ve been through isn’t typical, it certainly could have been worse. But, to a child with no sense of retrospect, every single moment of school was hell.

No, seriously. From day one, I’m pretty sure I was bullied the moment I stepped in the door. I wasn’t pretty, or cute, nor was I quiet or reserved. I was loud and high-energy, in hand-me-downs and crooked bangs, and I had no filter when it came to what I wanted. By grade two, one of my teachers was pretty sure I was either ‘retarded’ – actual phrase here, please don’t be mad – or in need of sedation. I actually went through testing. I’m not lying. I actually have clear snippets of those tests. And you know what? I wasn’t either of those things, like they thought: I was just my own kid.

My mom likes to joke that I didn’t learn to speak English until I was three, and had invented my own language for myself and had convinced myself so well that it was real that I would actually get pissed off at my family for not understanding me. That’s how deluded I was – and still can be at times. So obviously I wasn’t 100% all there in my head, but I wasn’t as bad as they thought. You could probably peg it down to ‘excessive imagination with penchant for sugar’.

In fact, I was pretty smart. I could have been a really annoying egghead, except I was getting bullied so badly that I didn’t know how to ride above that abuse and focus my hate and hurt on educating myself (like I know now). Instead, my grades dropped, and I would always bring home notes that said that I had potential, but I never used it.

Now, here’s where I must butt in and state that this was how it was in the 90’s and aught’s. If you mention bullying now, especially the kind of shit I went through, I would probably have been better protected and fought for. In fact, I probably wouldn’t have been as fucked up (though I do wonder if the internet abuse that is so prevalent now would have killed me). The major difference from then and now when it comes to bullying is so simple and yet so frustrating that I still feel angry thinking about it, but here it is.

Back then, no one listened. It’s true. Oh, sure, sometimes they had to listen, like when my mom had to furiously intervene in order to get someone to do something, but most of the time, whenever I would plead for help and name my abusers to any adult, I would be told that I had to learn to ignore it, learn to deal with it, not to point fingers, and also, the abusers say they’re innocent, so you’re obviously lying.

Yeah. That shit happened a lot when I went to school. And this was Catholic schooling. You know, where all your tax dollars go to in order to teach kids about the peaceful way of Christ, and also how to abuse your fellow man without getting busted by authority? Yup. Money well spent.

(Never EVER believe the lie that Catholic schools are more peaceful and have less bullying. It’s pure bullshit and actually the opposite. Public schools allow for diversity and tolerance. Catholic kids are taught how NOT to tolerate. Anyone who says otherwise is either in denial, a bully, or a liar who benefits from the system. Fuck Catholic schooling to its own hell.)

Catholics like to pretend like everything is okay. If you bring up anything negative, then you’re the problem, and thus you must keep it to yourself. I would walk into the office crying, uniform torn, injury obvious, and was told to go get cleaned up first before coming into the office, because showing up out of uniform was rude and against the rules.

I’m not shitting you. This was reality. Back then, no one cared nearly as much when a kid killed themselves for being bullied. They were labeled ‘weak’ and the school moved on. In fact, Catholic schools didn’t even report suicides to their own students. They lied, or they danced around it.

Now, this is a really long wind to exhale when talking about friendship, but it is connected completely. In the span of the decade and a half that I was in school, I was beaten up, stolen from, lied to, framed, called a liar for telling the truth, had my work vandalised; was made fun of no matter what I wore, was mocked when I spoke up and smirked at when silent… When I was shoved into a window and told to grow up by adults I was supposed to trust with my education when I pleaded for justice; was groped in my ‘boyfriend’s’ apartment after coming forward with the fact that he cheated on me with my ‘best friend’… When I thought I finally found a good guy and was told, by that same guy, that I was just warming his lap while he waited for my then best friend to get with him (only to later spread rumours about our non-sex-life)… When I thought the internet was finally a good place to be and I’d met a good guy, only to find that he no longer wanted me and, shortly after breaking up, was already in love with his future-wife, whom I had introduced to him… In the span of all of this, having maybe only two friends I thought I could trust who have to date let me down completely in the span of a year, when I have done nothing short of lick their toes…

I get it now.

I can’t keep friends because all I know how to do is be a chameleon. All my life I’ve been trying so hard to fit in. I can zero in on a person and know exactly how to tweak myself in order to be civil, rude, or appealing to them. To date, I still get screamed at to ‘go to the gym, fatty’ or ‘wear a bag over your head, uggo!’ How the hell am I supposed to know how to keep people in my life when I barely know how to walk down a street without being reminded that no matter what, I will never be good enough, never be smart enough, never be thin, or pretty, or engaging enough, no matter how many skins I try to wear? I’m a novelty, the type of person who can be in your life for maybe a few months before you realise that they’re pretty much way more complicated than you thought and thus aren’t worth your time, because you have your own shit to deal with.

Fine, I get that. I do. I don’t try with new people anymore. I know my shelf life is very short. I get old once I reveal that I’m a human that also wants love and support, too, instead of a toy that only provides those things for others when needed.

But old friends, friends I’ve spent half my life with, people I’ve sacrificed so much for, including time, energy, health, emotional stability, and yes, even other friends, only to be dumped without any reason why?

I think you owe me more than silence. I think you owe me more than spite. Because I’ve done so much for you. And I’m not being all ‘I’m perfect’, because I know I’ve fucked up. But I can think of three clear cases in my mind in which I was used for years with firm belief and trust that these people loved me, too, and had my back, too, only to ditch me once my use is spent.

I’m 30. I’m sick. I’m dying quicker each day. I don’t have time for this shit anymore.

If you don’t want to be my friend, that’s fine. You don’t even have to tell me why. But if I’m trying to contact you, at least give me something, ANYTHING, that explains why you suddenly hate me now. Because as far as I can tell,  you should be licking MY toes now, and not the other way around.

I no longer have the time nor patience to maintain these kinds of relationships anymore. I’m tired of chasing after people I love, only to be tossed aside with a flick of boredom, and picked up again only when there are no other toys to play with. I’m not a fucking toy. I’m a human. I’m a person. And you know what? I fucking deserve better than you. And now I know I do for sure.

I said it before: How could I ever expect to make the right kind of friends if I didn’t know how to even befriend myself? No wonder the people I thought were my friends have ended up being horrible abusers, worse than those bullies, because there’s love there, on my side, and it’s being beaten out of me, day by day.

And I’m done with it. Count me the fuck out.

Spirits

Note: This post is about religion, anti-religion, atheism, anti-theism, paganism, and all that sticky stuff. I’m sure you will find this post horrible if you are attached to any religion, so please skip this. I won’t mind and would never judge you, no matter what your religion! Otherwise, read on, fellow heathen!

The legs that curl up into lollipops when a house sits upon them.

Here’s the thing, everyone. For pretty much 25 of the 30 years I’ve so far lived on this planet, I’ve been keeping my eyes out for magic. I would scribble nonsensical stories about girls like me with “magical items” (I was SO into that, a thing that grants power!) that would give them powers to have vengeance over bullies and step-parents. I would read fantasy novels. I would read science fiction. I would eyeball books meant for teen Wiccans and leaf through shiny fake imagery of fantastical creatures. These dreams of magic made my blood sing in my veins, my heart race in my breast. I felt so close to being able to touch magic, that it was just outside my reach, and I was caught in a membrane of mundane that kept me from my true power.

You can imagine my heartbreak when I finally had to admit defeat on the magical front. Lemme tell ya, I tried everything. But first, let’s go back a second.

I was actually raised Catholic. I was splashed with water when I was still a slug, and I took every single rite up to but not including Confirmation into the church. For the longest time, I was devoted to God, because I thought God was the source of power: that magic was God, and God, magic. So I was a good Catholic for the longest time. I would sing, I would pray, I would gaze upon the tortured body of a Jew I’ve been told to love without ever feeling his presence… and then I realised that God that not chosen me.

Now, keep in mind that I still adored magic. I conveniently ignored the famous anti-witch sentiments in the rather horrifying Good News Bible that I was given when I turned eight. I simply thought it referred to something else, something that clearly had nothing to do with me, since I was pretty sure I loved God and Jesus. I definitely loved Mary, the only woman worshiped as much as Jesus. I didn’t see her as my mother, but like an older sister (I have two, remember). If I had a rosary, I tried to get one with only Mary on it (and without dead Jesus on a cross), but sadly, such a thing doesn’t exist.

By the time I was 14, I knew that if God existed, he didn’t want anything to do with me, so I dove into what every single damned 14-year-old 90’s kid dove into and got into Wicca and “Witchcraft”. (I put that in quotes because, really, the stuff they sell is the “Red Shoe Diaries” of Witchcraft. I’ve only found one book in the many many years of reading many, many magic books that came even close to real power. THAT was the “Behind The Green Door” for me.) (Props to anyone who gets any of these references.)

And yet, I put my whole ass into being a witch, even to the point of making my own potions that probably would have killed me had I drunk them. Every single book I had about magic said that power comes with puberty, but that just wasn’t happening for me. This was also a time when one of my sisters firmly believed in ghosts and felt she could see them – especially recently dead relatives. I was jealous of that, so jealous I sometimes cried. I hated stories in which the protagonist curses their power, when I would give my right hand – MY WRITING HAND – for any kind of power.

I eventually fell out of that phase when nothing worked. I didn’t really have a religion by the end of high school. I was focused instead on writing about other worlds that were saturated in the stuff, because if I couldn’t have it, I would make up someone who could in my place (hence why my protagonists always at least slightly look like me. Shut up.). I want to say that somehow that was my religion, but it doesn’t sound quite right.

I think this was close to the time that I started getting drawn into Buddhism. I always found it interesting whenever I heard about it, and was fascinated by the supernatural claims that many of the sects swore their masters could perform. Because I was sceptic but also sadly hopeful that this was my chance to find magic, I decided to study it.

During this time, I also dove back into witchcraft for a while, or wizardry as they call it now, thanks to Mr Potter. I tried to get books written by adults and intended for adults, and I did hit upon some really golden gems that not only offered promise but also gave me amazing reference for my magical novels. And even though every spell failed, I still studied and tried, anyway.

So here I was, in the middle of trying to find magic in two places at once. Eventually, when witchcraft was failing me more and more, and the bare-bones of Buddhism was working more and more (Meditate. I dare you. If you even bother to try and face your own mind for more than 15 minutes, you would seriously start doubting reality. And yes, without drugs.). There was something normal and almost refreshing when it came to the honesty of Buddhism – or at least in some sects (*coughcoughPureLandWTFcoughcough*). Most sects agree that Siddhartha was just a dude who happened to hit on something amazing after working his ass off looking, and decided to share it with others. As it spread, it kinda grew legs in every place it landed, and like most religions, there’s always a different version of the same thing. But at least they seem to coincide, and there are some that appear more sane than others. And the guy died of food poisoning, for dog’s sake. That’s pretty boring compared to other religious leaders’ deaths.

Honestly, my whole point for babbling this is this: Eventually, I came to terms with my lacking any magic power, and it was thanks to Buddhism. Why? Because it allowed me to see the magic that we usually ignore, magic that is real and can be touched and manipulated: nature. I’m grateful to Buddhism for giving me that gift, while also allowing me to maintain that there’s probably no God, but if there is, well, it’d be nice to hear from him. If not, that’s cool, too.

In this day and age of constant holy wars and petty violence over what way is the right way to worship the universal unknown, I’m starting to wonder if sharing religion on such a large scale is such a good idea. I truly don’t think government needs a religious backbone to be moral and just. I think religion is very personal and private, something between you, what you pray to, and perhaps a few others you trust to share it with. You can worship the mould on your wall for all I care, as long as it makes you happy and no one else sad. It’s a personal thing. I resent that religion is a title we all somehow have to bear, even if there’s more than one title to claim. Why do we have to declare how we approach the mythical? Why does it have to be public? Does it make you feel better, to get it off your chest, to let people know? Are you lonely and need company?

I’m actually not joking here, folks. I really do think religion is a private thing. Like I said, I think anyone has the right to worship anything, as long as it hurts no one and makes you or those affected happy. I often wonder if most of the leaders in the world so hell-bent on converting people to their religions were insecure and in need of validation; that if religion can be seen as something personal, there would be far calmer skies and less dead people.

So I guess what I’m saying is this: I don’t mind religion on a small scale. In small ways, it can be wonderful. But not everyone is going to or even needs to agree with you. And that’s okay, too. So maybe, when you start to get to know someone, don’t be nosy and ask about what they worship. It’s none of your business, and it should be up to them if they want to share, and vice versa. If religion is so important to you that you can’t be friends with someone unless they agree with your method of worship, do the world a favour:

Get thee to a religious place, become a drone, and worship there. Otherwise, let it go.

Why is that so hard?!

Urgent Petition to Save Another Ugandan Lesbian About to be deported from United Kingdom

This shit needs to end, yesterday. Sign the petition or I will sit on you. And not in the good way.

O-blog-dee-o-blog-da

URGENT PETITION – See link below-

By Melanie Nathan, August 19, 2104.

An Ugandan lesbian may be deported on Friday, unless we act fast. When Burton Youth for Christ members found out that their trusted interned employee of 10 months was a lesbian, they suddenly turned on her, fearing that she could harm or negatively impact their children.  They would no longer support her quest for asylum and with a mere five pounds in hand dumped her at the airport with an air ticket back home, to persecuting Uganda.  She was essentially left to fend for herself in a system that is not so friendly to LGBT asylees.

The United Kingdom’s home office has an insidious history of fast tracking and subjecting under represented asylees to further persecution through their process.  They also have a history of not understanding the issues and cultural impediments that face prospective asylees, such as…

View original post 973 more words

Where Are You Going? Can You Take Me With You?

Ever since my friend got out of the hospital, I haven’t heard from her. I already hear the obvious question: why don’t you call her yourself? Because I’m a coward, that’s why.

No, that’s too simplistic, too easy. I’m too wrapped up in my own emotional and physical damages that I have trouble trying to help her with her own. Even though intellectually I know I’m making matters worse by lengthening the silence almost a month old, I still hesitate to make contact, because I wonder if the silence is on purpose.

I worry she read my post here talking about her and took it badly. I can understand why; the post looks like a whiny mess of selfish tripe that starts with her and ends with “woe is me”. But I would have expected an angry phonecall or email, not silence.

Is that it, then? 15 years of give and take, of friendship and such, gone in an instant, because I say bullshit on what I consider to be a diary?

Everyone says stupid fucked up emotional shit in their diaries. It’s what they’re for. Very rarely is a diary filled with nothing but purple prose. Most likely, it’s laced with dark, midnight-blue nonsense.

If you are reading this, please take this to heart. I thought it was obvious how much I loved you by how hard I try to make things work, to make things happen. I know you’re going through hell, and I am trying to be there for you as best I can. But I also am going through hell right now, and I can’t be as dependable as I used to be. Just like you can’t for me. And I understand now why.

This is probably why I never keep friends. I never learned how to be one. So I always lose them, no matter how well-meaning I try to be.

A Public Letter to Mississauga’s Committee of Adjustments

Disclaimer: I AM NOT AGAINST PLACES OF WORSHIP IN GENERAL. I AM against places of worship that remove people from their homes and force them to move.

An Open Letter to The Committee of Adjustments in Meadowvale, Mississauga, Ontario.
Dear Committee,

On my way back from errands this morning, I noticed a sign in front of the beautiful bungalows along Winston Churchill, near the mall. Confused, I looked closer, and saw a Committee sign that said, and I’m paraphrasing because I was on the bus, that the land was slated for redevelopment for a “Two-Storey Religious Building.”

First of all, why? There’s a church already close there, almost right beside it. Also, why are you tearing down historical bungalows, ones that have been standing since before Meadowvale was declared Meadowvale. Are you seriously going to tear them down for a redundant religious building?

I don’t actually know what religion it is for, and to be blunt, I don’t care. It doesn’t belong there, not when there’s already a church beside it and two more down the road. You’re destroying people’s homes and ruining probably the only remaining piece of history in this vastly “adjusted” area. Need I remind you all of the huge, horrid mistake you made turning the Meadowvale mall into a strip? I’m disabled; do you have any idea how hard it is to walk around the entire strip? I’m old enough to remember when the mall was two storeys, had actual stores and restaurants and even a food court. So I’m wise enough to know that destroying all of that was one of the biggest follies you ever forced us of Meadowvale to suffer. And it still is.

I must reiterate that I’m not against religious buildings. I do identify as a secular Buddhist as well as an atheist, but that has absolutely nothing to do with what YOU are doing, and that is destroying history, when we have so little left in this area.

Meadowvale is not Erin Mills. It was not built solely based on a plan in order to cash in. Rather, it was a settlement that started modestly and had to work to become what it was. Your continuing interference in preserving history has reached its final straw – and that’s not even mentioning the wanton destruction you’ve wrecked upon Erin Mills Town Centre, as well.

In my 30 years as a resident – yes, that’s my whole life – I’ve seen Meadowvale grow into something huge. Something almost bigger than it meant to be. I feel like this is the consequence, that we’re destroying perfectly good homes and history for a redundant building we don’t need. And yes, I would be saying this exact same thing if it were to be a Buddhist Temple. I would never want to see anything from my philosophy take away the homes of innocent people. I don’t care how much – if you even did – you paid those residents. They were grossly undersold.

I urge you to please correct this mistake and stop the project. I know that, since building hasn’t started yet, you can still cancel the project. I also know that this is also the perfect window to refund investors without racking up too much interest. And you probably know why I know this just by my last name, but I assure you, my father has nothing to do with this post. This is all me.

Thank you, and please, please make the right choice.
Tara L. Blackmore

Should the Mississauga Committee of Adjustments wish to contact me to discuss this, please check out my contact info below. If I’m wrong, I will update this post.

Before you attack me, please be sure to understand the message I’m sending.

Contact me on Twitter @YukinoOmoni should you have any further concerns or questions.

Friday

I usually spend this day in a slow kind of fog. The end of the week brings this out of a lot of people who actually have jobs and such that take them Monday-Friday, but obviously I cannot claim the same. Fridays are  usually spent in a kind of bubble that contains Nim, books, my phone and DS, and myself. More often than not, I go for a walk, but only on Fridays. Again, weird, I know.

Today is somewhat darker, despite the weather and sunshine. I am still reeling from the news I got recently, about my friend once again trying to kill herself due to her mental illness. It sounds selfish, but it does have impact on me, despite not being the one who tried. I have known her for half my life. She was my first true friend after my first childhood one left the city. To see her in pain without any way to fix it kills me.

Honestly, this weekend is probably one spent with Terry at his apartment in pyjamas cuddling our cat Milo (and him, together or separate). Or, maybe I can find something to distract me outside of the city. A friend of mine mentioned an expo nearby…hmm…

I just wanted to post something today, so that everyone knows I am okay, and that I will keep everyone posted. :3

Voice of IBS-C, now live

Heya, guess what! I have another blog, one devoted to what I am sick with! And it happens to be here on WordPress!

The link is: http://ibschronicdepression.wordpress.com/2014/07/17/welcome-to-the-blog/

I now blog for WeAre1Voice, a community devoted to giving voices to women who are previously unheard or ignored. I was given the gracious opportunity to be this particular voice, and it is an honour I refuse to take lightly.

Thus, when I update there, I will be linking the posts here. That way, you can check it out if you want to, instead of being forced to read it when all you want to read is my whining and histrionics =P.

While you are there, please do not forget to support the fellow women who also are apart of the community!