There she goes..

So here it is, my compulsory ‘It’s The End of the Year and I Should Write Something Poignant’ post. It’s likely been a year since I wrote anything of substance. I wish I had a good excuse; gallivanting through the desert, curled up in love, exploring some far off jungle. Instead, I’ve been living the mundane life of a late twenty-something. That late to bed, early to rise, nine to five grind kind of life.* Things have slipped through the cracks, and things have wedged their way in-between my bones. Truly, I won’t belittle 2016 for what it really was, a year (as always) of lessons, and of growth. I’m trying to remember where I was this time a year ago. Likely, I was sitting in the bed of my shitty old flat, hoping I could come up with something to inspire myself to get through 2016 without relapsing into a bulimic haze, or driving myself crazy reminiscing over past relationships and what if’s. Today, though, I’m somewhere different. I like to believe I’m a little more grown up, and a little more well-adjusted. I think some may argue differently, but I’d like to think I have some counterpoints to assure them it’s certainly true. I swear. Just bear with me here. For the first time in a very long time, I feel like I’m crossing the threshold into a period of my life where I’m growing up (somewhat.) By this, of course, I mean doing things like listening to my body, my mind, and my heart - and doing all these things in a way I never have before. I’ve learned to take myself more seriously in my career path, to make bold choices in love, and to accept myself in all forms. 2016 was the first time in a very, very long time, I opened myself up to the idea of caring for someone. I met a man who I felt ticked nearly all of the boxes when it comes to a person whom I could see myself with for longer than a night or two, and it reminded me that losing people you care for is hard - but that I am at least capable of opening up again (without slowing unwinding and diving down the rabbit hole.) 2016 reminded me to be careless in love, not with my body, but instead with my heart. To give myself, and my emotions, more freely. To tell people I love them, romantically or otherwise, because I think we hold the word love too high on a pedestal. I have so many people who have come into my life in the last year who I truly, truly love. People, who I believe, I would not have made it through the past few years without. The word love does not begin to describe how incredibly important they are to me. I’ve traveled more than I thought I ever would; California, Ontario, New York, Bulgaria, Argentina, Antarctica, Spain, and even a couch-surfing stint in the UK. I’ve got new tattoos, and new stories. I’ve met people who changed my perspectives, people who inspired me with their drive (eh, Snooks!) and people who reminded me that strangers aren’t strangers for long after enough beers. It’s been a wild ride, and I’ve accumulated more than a few stamps in both my passports to consider it successful. Twenty-sixteen brought me a health scare I never thought I’d face. I spent two days in the hospital going over all the choices I had ever made, and how it had taken this long for me to realize my reckless choices have consequences. It opened my eyes; and brought a sort of fear I’d never faced before into fruition. It reminded me that I am human. Luckily, I’ve found myself living in the most stable, and well-adjusted environment my neurotic little brain could ever ask for. Nestled on the top floor of a building surrounded by parks, and markets. The kind of place I dreamed about having when I made the decision to come to London two years ago. So with that, let’s not forget the fact that I’ve managed to survive, and not by a hair, for the past two years. When I moved abroad New Year’s Eve 2014, I was pretty certain that I’d crack and go running home with my tail between my legs. I’m so infinitely impressed with myself and this little life I’ve been able to establish for myself. I’m so thankful for the experiences I’ve had, for the people I’ve met and the gorgeous friends I’ve made along the way. I’m so incredibly excited for the next year, and all of the plans I’ve made. For once, I’m not planning an escape. 2016 taught me not to run away when things become dark. To not close off, shut down, and shift away from the things that used to cause my mind to wander and my legs to tap, and my heart to ache. I long to live every experience as wholly and completely as possible, because even if it ends and I’ve not won, I’ve still managed to gain something in the end. Risk doesn’t always bring reward, but the lessons have been priceless (and I’m not just talking about the fact that 2016 has also been the year of Fashion risks. 2017 is the year of the bodysuit.) I look around (and by around, I suppose, I mostly mean I look on social media) and I see so many people achieving life’s milestones. They are buying homes, having children, and settling down. They are finding happiness in family, in home, in the lives they’re building. Sometimes I think maybe I missed the mark; that I didn’t focus hard enough on finding that person to spend my life with when I was younger. I’d like to think I gave it a good swing with C, and maybe even with J, and that now I can just sit around for my third great love that Carrie Bradshaw promised me - but I won’t hold my breath. Sometimes I think I’d not destined for that sort of thing, but I guess that’s the kind of thing not worth dwelling on. I’m going to spend New Year’s Eve in my new wet-look jeggings (oh come on, fashion risk!) I’m going to spend it surrounded by the people who have helped turn London into a place I’m lucky to call my second home. I’m going to countdown to 2017 not dreading the fact I’ve got no one ‘special’ to kiss (cause let’s be realistic, I’m going to sloppily kiss someone special to me - it just likely will be less romantic and more Spring Break) and I’m going to look forward to 2017; in all it’s glory. 2016 wasn’t as much of an asshole to me, as it was to the world as a whole, and for that I’m thankful. Here’s to another year of year of risks; in love, in fashion, in work, in life. Here’s to crushed velvet, hearts and dreams. Thank you, 2016. You’ve been lit. *In actuality I became an aunt, traveled to Antarctica, MC’d my brother’s wedding, etc. But I couldn’t start with that kind of build up. Could I?

It’s safe to say it’s been a long time since I put my mind to work with something other than work itself. I’ve been on the road for what feels like months now, which culminated with a trip to Canada, my first time home in over a year. The last twelve months have been an overwhelming period of growth and change for me. I’ve stopped to smell the roses, and I’ve also watched the world spin faster than I could have ever imagined. Going home, though, was something I had feared since I’ve left. I’m always torn between feeling like I’ve got something to prove and doing my best to remember that everything I’ve accomplished has been for myself. Going back to Toronto and Ottawa was fifty percent reunion with friends and family, and fifty percent closure. I knew that while being there I would come face to face with a lot of the reasons why I had left in the first place – an unnerving fact that I wasn’t exactly ready to handle. Toronto is a place that harbours a lot of weirdness for me, which I know might not be the best way to word it - but that’s all I’ve got. The majority of my nights in the city were drenched in alcohol, and spent lost between the sheets with people whom I’ve since come to learn were never truly worth it at all. I was battling my eating disorder, depression and the sadness that comes from losing someone who I’m nearly certain I will miss forever. If one good thing came from my time spent in Toronto, it was adding the closing words to chapters I’d left open prior to my departrure. More specifically, I was let down by someone whom I thought had changed. Someone I’d believed had finally come to their senses, someone who I thought maybe could finally think of someone other than himself.  He and I have a bit of a web of a past. The most appropriate way to describe it, I suppose, would be to call us ‘friends with benefits’. Maybe that isn’t exactly even the best way to put it, as I cared about him so desperately, but the feeling unfortunately was never reciprocated. --- When he walked into the bar, I felt my stomach drop. He’s got that charm and charisma that is impossible not to latch onto. He can so wonderfully weave a web around you, leaving you hopeless. This has always been the case. He is so wonderfully manipulative. I used to think I had the hardest of hearts, and that I could handle it. Naturally and naively, I believed everything he said. So hopeless in believing that he would come around. As we sat, sharing breakfast from the same plate, after spending the night together, he told me he had decided not to come to my brother’s wedding. A wedding, I might add, we were supposed to be heading to in about 20 minutes time. I remember my plane landing in New York City in January. The stabbing pain I felt, coming to terms with the fact that Brett had played me for a fool.  I suddenly found myself there again – just when I felt I was making progress, I was instead blinded by emotion. I did my best to keep it together, as I packed up my things in his room. I was initially supposed to spend the entire week there, and I decided it was not in my best interest. I cried as the cab took me back to the office, knowing I would have to embarrassingly explain why my date had suddenly decided to bail. I’ve got a serious knack for finding lost boys, wolves in sheep’s clothing. Men who are so wonderfully, beautifully broken; I want to take all of their pieces and help put them back together, and he was no exception. Thankfully though, over the last year, I’ve gotten a bit better at the art of letting go. Slowly, I’ve learned to accept who I am – and in doing so, I’ve learned to accept what people are not. I’ve learned that people cannot be changed or fixed, that all I can do is focus on the reasons why I latch onto them in the beginning, and try to learn from my mistakes. Sometimes though, I need them as much as they need me, which I think is more disconcerting. Something I attempt to stay far away from these days. Not letting their dark clouds hang heavy on my blue skies - brighter than they have been in awhile; people have told me that lately they can see a shift, a change in my disposition. Something I think I’ve tried extremely hard to acheive. Slowly, but surely, I’m beginning to feel more comfortable and confident in my own skin. While dating and I are still not on good terms, I’m trying my best to put myself out there as best I can. Now, as I sit in this coffee shop, choosing to spend my birthday alone - taking in the day, and trying to collect all of my thoughts from the last few months, it all starts to slowly take shape. This new adventure, all the points slowly being plotted on a map in my mind. I’m more sure now, than ever, that everything I’ve gone through has helped pushed me towards my successes - and I’m looking even more forward to what’s coming next.

,

Recently, unbeknownst to me, I became entangled in a web of lies. I fell so deep down an emotional rabbit hole, that really I think the only way to describe it, is that I was catfished. I was lead to believe I meant something that I didn’t, for some sort of sick and twisted game this person enjoys playing. The entire situation, looking back, makes me feel a little ill inside. The further I have investigated into the situation, the more I come to realise I should have noticed all of the signs from the start. The language, the nature of the conversations themselves…I knew something was off, but this is my problem, I attach myself to broken individuals. But, hurt people hurt people. (Follow the link for a very fitting track to go with this entry.) Let’s start from the beginning, as it all started off very innocent. Quick hellos, small talk. He was a good friend of my best friend, and had all of the typical qualities I’m attracted to. Slightly nerdy, a little awkward, tattoos, baby face. You know the type. But, the situation became a little more complicated. He worked with me, and add to that, he was also emotionally involved with someone else who I work with. But this made it thrilling. I mean, realistically, I’ve slept with other people I work with so it’s nothing new - but, still. It adds that tiny little element of ‘rule-breaking’ that makes it that much more exciting.  They say that hindsight is 20/20. The more I look back on the situation, the more I go over the conversations online, the telephone calls - I start to see the signs that I should have seen sooner. As I uncover more pieces of this weird little puzzle he had created, I start to feel less like a girl who had her heart hurt - and more like a victim of some sort of weird game of emotional manipulation this individual likes to play. Despite knowing that he was involved with another coworker, I continued to speak to him regularly. He told me that she had exaggerated the situation, that it was not as emotional as she made it out to be, that she had gotten attached and he did not see it in that romantic way. (I’ve now found out, that he had been asking her about me; how close we were, how often we talked, even going so far as to say she reminded him of me.)  Our conversations slowly became flirty, and eventually much more intense. They got very personal, where he would divulge (what he told me) were things he had ‘never told to anyone before.’ (As I sit here, going over the evidence, like this is some sort of cold case - I learn that he has said this before. He has told the same stories with tears in his eyes. He has used the phrase ‘I’ve never done this before’ enough times that he should likely get it tattooed on him. It’s the hook, line, and sinker.) He pulled me in and made me feel like I was important. Not only in his life, but in the universe. He made me feel like the things I did, the things I created - were magical. That I was a unicorn. Special, unique, and I was lucky to know him - and him me.  We got into the thick of it. Long conversations, lasting hours. Daily phone calls, emotional chats. I even sent him a fucking care package when he was going through a particularly hard time (I’m a really, really good fucking person.) I let him into places in my head I had never invited anyone before. I told him stories that I had never shared. Truly dark, and deep places. I still feel dirty thinking about it. That I had been pulled so far down the rabbit hole that I felt safe, and cozy. That I could let myself go - and be comforted in knowing we were doing this together. Even now, thinking about it, I feel sick. I told him about the time that I was raped, all of the times I had my heart broken and how the wounds still have yet to heal. I told him things that only one other person (until I write this now) had ever been told. He used my weaknesses to pinpoint ways to get me to open up. He enjoys emotional control. He likes to know you are vulnerable. I would imagine for him this is a bit thrilling. It all just makes me feel sick. I’ve now learned that the things he said to me, he had said to others. The exact things. That ‘his therapist thinks I am good for him’, that ‘I make him feel like he’s able to be himself - to open up, to finally be happy.” Maybe I’m naive, as I know I have been in the past. But - when someone starts to make you feel needed, like your emotional connection with them has a bearing on their well-being - it sinks into your bloodstream. Women love to be loved, to be needed. In his words, to be ‘adored.’ He used his words so cleverly, to keep me hooked, as he did with her - as he did with others, I’m sure. Things were as intimate as they could be for people who have never met. Have I mentioned this part of the story yet. This person and I have never met. We live on opposite sides of the globe. That makes this situation even more fucked up. I became emotionally attached to someone who I had never met. That’s what makes this whole situation feel like it should be on an episode of Catfish. He does it so well, it is all so calculated. He would write me long, intricate descriptions of all the ways he wanted to touch me, of the things he would do if we met. We would joke about how he should write an erotic novel, or start a blog. That’s how well he had it down. Sometimes it seemed like he was just copying and pasting things from the internet. His game was so strong I wouldn’t be surprised if he had this all outlined somewhere, a perfect play by play. The right moments. I have a collection of photos and videos he would send me, intimate and private. Things he also said ‘I’ve never sent to anyone before’ but I will now assume that is also a lie.  Either way - I continued on. Hoping this situation was different. Hoping, maybe, this meant something to him. He did a great job of convincing me it did, even going so far as to call my best friend and explain the situation. To ‘prove’ his affections were true. Telling her that he had stopped seeing other people because of our connection. (Truly laughable.) And now, I sit here with a ticket booked for a week from now, and some eerie silence. A ticket booked to a city halfway around the world, as we had planned to meet in the middle.  A gesture, which I have no learned, he had also propositioned not just myself to take part in. This is a trip, it seems, he had invited many to come along on - it just seems only I was stupid enough to take the leap.  Now I am here with an explanation that it was never meant to be a romantic meeting at all - just a meeting, and we could see from there how things would go. That, it seems, I should have known from the start that he would pull away. That he is now emotionally unavailable. Cut off from the world. And I will sit here, with my ticket, and wonder how I was so fucking stupid? Wonder why the fuck I booked this ticket, knowing full well I had been warned about him. Can’t cry over spilled milk I suppose (plus I’m fucking lactose intolerant, so I shouldn’t have had fucking milk anyways.)  As the pieces unfold around me, and I learn that I am not the only girl who has been put in this situation, I feel a sort of strength. A small bit of solidarity. It isn’t just me, it isn’t just her - it’s him. There is something going on in his mind, that makes him feel like he needs this human connection. It seems as though he loves to have someone who cares very deeply about him, and he needs this validation. He needs to be needed, to give himself meaning.  I’ve had my words with him, and even still I tip toe. Worried that saying the wrong thing will make him emotionally vulnerable again. But, I’ve come to the realisation, that someone who has no interest in my personal well being, deserves none of my sympathy. Not anymore. As a writer, as someone who functions best with her heart on her sleeve and a pencil in her hand, this is my therapy. This is my penance for all the things that I have done, as if the feeling of being part of some premeditated emotional stranglehold are not enough. I refuse to sit here, embarrassed that I let it get this far. That while I was home, even my mom asked ‘How are things with ___?” and I had to awkwardly explain that he might actually be a psychopath, a real live Tucker Max .  So I will go to New York. I will take that time to reflect on what brought me there. On how I can’t feel regret for opening up to people. While, of course, this was a train wreck - it reminded me that I do have the capacity to give my heart away. It is no longer in the grips of my last relationship, and I will not allow this to be the benchmark for my future ones. This will be a small blip on the radar, and a great chapter in my book. The (2nd time) I booked the the ticket.  Wish me luck, boys and girls, in the big apple. If I run into him, I’ll surely let you know how it goes. Until this, this is his 15 minutes of fame. xx

I’m several glasses of port wine in when the sweetness sinks into my veins and my heart sinks down to the floor. Even with the soft glow of the christmas lights illuminating the walls with reds, yellows, and greens - the world seems a soft, pale grey without you. I wonder if after all this time, your mind still wanders my way. If sometimes you sit at a crossroads, trying to decipher the signs, to see if I am the right direction. The air smells sweet, of cinnamon and sourdough bread. The taste of berries lingering on my tongue, as I long for the taste of you. I imagine your lips as I press my mouth against the glass, as my throat is numbed. Candy-coating, therapy. I wonder where your hands are now. I want them to be holding me. I crave the same gentle grip I have around the glass, as I slide my finger along the stem and give a surreptitious smirk. You’re always here when I get this deep. But I’ll sit, and I’ll sip, and I’ll let the urges pass. I’ll let the honey trickle down and I’ll think of you in silence, in solitude. Waiting for you to choose my way, but all the while too stubborn to pass the map. 

She’s just another white girl. All black everything & a selfie with my Doe It hair mask working it’s magic. Check out this magical brand www.doeit.ca ! So delicious. 

In my room, with only the candle light to trace the lines of you etching your shadow onto my walls though the important parts of you those important parts though you are only parts just bits and pieces of times and places, of people you have met that have built you up, and torn you down you, your - these eyes and lips and hips and skin and bones strung together, tied with bows at the joints, so you can still move just-so as you flicker along the white paint – you fell in love in California, when she got you high and promised you sunshine, and you imagined all of the ways she could light up the dark parts of you, and you lost your mind wondering how things became so dimly lit and the candles are flickering like traffic lights, telling you to stop and go and you wake up alone in a bed in San Francisco after having dreamt a woman who smells like cinnamon and tastes like pine needles, and the train ride up the coast was the toughest ride you’ve ever had, as you watched the tide ebb and flow, as the days and nights passed, and you wondered how you got so far, and you wondered what you were running from at all, That yellow taxi - when you told her it was the last time, like you had known her for years but those hours flew by like fireflies, and in the morning they were gone, and all you had as some beetles in jars, reminding you of brighter days, and cracks in the walls reminding you of where her shadows used to dance.

We talk about exploring the world. We speak of several hundred cities we want to see. We talk of the people we want to meet, and the oceans we want to dip our toes in. We talk of streets we want to walk upon, alleyways we wish to get lost in. Of accents we want to acquire, and the hum of the sun on our skin as it turns to gold. We want deserts, and tree tops; islands and icebergs. We say we want to get lost, one thousand miles away, with somebody we’ve never met. We say all of these things over coffee on a Saturday morning, on a patio on the corner of Arlington and Ivy. All the while, I am lying. Because although I want to get lost, it is only in the confines of your sheets. I do not want to dip my toes into the ocean, I do not want to walk upon the streets; I want to sit with my feet up, in our living room, as I pretend to read and watch you fumble with your crossword puzzle. Instead of a golden hue, I prefer that particular shade of pink my cheeks turn while your lips graze my neck. I do not want tree tops, or deserts, or icebergs or islands. I want the simple sound of the birds in the morning, when the sun is lifting in the east, and you are just about to wake. I want the rise and the fall of your chest, the beating of your heart. Instead of maps, I want your fingers tracing the simple and soft parts of me. But all the while, I will lie, and my adventurous heart will keep quiet and imagine all the adventures we could have if only we stopped dreaming and let love in.

B. Dalle.