I digress – today’s lyric kind of reflects a bit of a theme that’s arisen lately, and it called me back to a list I made almost a year ago of things I was going to do before 30.

“You shouldn’t wait for something terrible to happen before you decide to grab life by the throat and live it to pieces (thank you Frank) – but that being said, when something terrible does happen, you do kind of realise that life is short, and it’s probably better off not to spend it on crap you’ll either forget or regret when the end is drawing near. [...] Two of the biggest things I’ve learned are that a) time is short, that every second should be spent wisely, and that trivial things should never be prioritised over what ultimately means most in life, and b) shit happens, but the only way it’s going to stop happening is if you decide to take action rather than whine about it.

Blogging about my goal list over the course of the last two years is hands down the reason I kept going. Once you put something out there for the world to see, you feel like you owe it to them to follow through on your promises. And you owe it to yourself to stay accountable, and not look like a lazy bastard. 

[...] So I’m going to make a 30 Before 30. When I made the last list, it wasn’t just a bucket list of stuff I thought might be kind of neat - it was a list of things I was terribly afraid of, but things I was desperate to be able to do (but that most people probably checked off by the time they reached puberty). I want to challenge myself, grow, learn new things, throw myself outside what’s comfortable and hope for the best. I want to learn to stop giving a crap about things and people that don’t factor into the big picture, and I want to focus only on the things that do. I want to learn to accept my weaknesses and faults, and actively try to change them. I want to learn what is most comfortable, and spend some time nurturing that as well as trying what’s not. I don’t want to get to the end without any scars. I want to get there knowing I did something, and I want to know more fully who exactly I am. I think once you’ve figured that out, it’s pretty much time to kick the bucket, but I think there’s enormous value in exploring yourself, learning to be comfortable with what’s there, and challenging yourself to be even more. I think it was good to have tried things I was afraid of, but I tend to give myself a hard time for not having done them perfectly – my goal wasn’t just to attempt them, but to do them fearlessly, and in that respect, it’s hard not to focus on shortcomings. But on the other hand, I think points are generally given for effort, so I think as long as I keep trying, maybe I’ll learn to give myself a bit of a break.  Before the Professor and I even met, he quoted something I’ve held onto tightly ever since – that it doesn’t matter what direction you’re going or if you even know where you’re going, as long as you’re moving forward.  And move forward I shall.

[...] I have two years left of my twenties. I still have so much to learn, so much to improve, so much to tackle and so much to try. I have so many goals I want to throw out there into the universe and make sure I always keep working on. I have activities I want to experience, moments I want to share, places I want to see, and project I want to complete. And I want to spend every day focusing on all of them. Nobody, they say, gets remembered for the things they didn’t do. So here goes.”

Life has been such a whirlwind lately that I don’t think I’ve actually checked in with this list, but looking back on it now, I see the first thing on the list was to do with music.

“I want to lose the awkwardness, the terror at the thought of singing in front of a single person, learn to have some sort of presence, and actually not kind of suck at something I actually really enjoy.”

When I wrote that I think I had a handful of lame YouTube videos up, ones in which I’d tried to sing and play but definitely wasn’t doing it to the level I wanted to be. It was like my fear of being heard for what I really am was physically stifling my voice, and I sounded like a little mouse. I so wanted to not be that quiet, whispery singer who only does songs in her bedroom when nobody’s home. I so wanted to sing Big Songs and not be afraid to do it in my own home. I so wanted to prove I could do it, for myself, and eventually, for other people.

So it’s been 9 months. I’ve invested in a lot of music equipment (Psych 101 taught me that the brain will convince itself to make use of things if they’ve been a bit investment), and I can record with a mic and an amp now. I’m still recording off my phone, but that’s not a big issue. I took a series of piano lessons (which didn’t come back as naturally as I’d hoped), and I think I started getting braver in what I was singing and posting to the internet. And then something magical happened. First, I stopped cringing so much and started feeling a tiny bit proud of myself. Second, somebody in a real band told me they preferred my voice to their own singer’s. And thirdly, somehow I joined a band. (More likes = more accountability!)

The first few jamming sessions were scary. Tonnes of fun, but scary. I think even proper singers will say it’s harder to sing in front of one or a small group of people than a big crowd, because all the attention is on you. But after a couple of practices, I’m actually starting to feel more comfortable – and slightly excited at the thought of performing. In two or three weeks. Yep, I figured if I was going to do this, I wasn’t going to wait another nine months sitting in my bedroom mustering up the courage to do it, so I’m making it as public as possible so I have to stay accountable. It’s just going to be an open mic, but I have a couple of weeks to get my arse in gear, stop fretting, overanalysing and psyching myself out, get excited, and sing like I’ve always wanted to. The topic of why, as an introvert, I want to do these things, is something I’m trying to answer in my head. I think it has something to do with avoiding regret, maybe something to do with proving myself (to whom, I’m not sure), something to do with always becoming more (or at least trying)… but I don’t have a good answer yet. Maybe I will when the idea of performing doesn’t make me want to throw up so much.

Right now, I’m sitting at about 15% excitement and 85% pure terror. It’ll be interesting to look back in a few months, or a year or two, and see if anything’s changed. Wish me luck?

Watch this. I’ll wait.

I realise this is geared more toward women, but are we kidding anyone if we say men don’t suffer from feelings of low self esteem too? I watched this and it brought tears to my eyes because I know had I been involved in this, mine would’ve been on the drastic side. I imagined myself going in with my best friend and both of us taking part in the experiment. I imagined the portrait resulting from my description of myself, and the one resulting from hers. I know mine would’ve been ugly. It would’ve had a big nose with an ugly bulb on the end, a pointy chin that juts out so much you can physically hold it, bags under my eyes and hair that refused to look clean. If it were a full length portrait, it would’ve had an exaggerated pear-shaped frame, with no chest or shoulders, enormous hips and thighs twice the width of the torso. It would’ve had crooked teeth and eyes that were differently sized from each other, and in between deep-set laughter lines far more carved than they should be for my age, would sit an awkward, lop-sided mouth. My self-described portrait would look like a character from a cinematic adaptation of a Neil Gaiman novel.

Did you watch the video? This will mean nothing to you if you didn’t. Here.

“The video features an FBI forensic artist, who sketches portraits of women based on the physical descriptions they give to him of themselves.  He never sees them during the session.

The same women were also asked to spend some one-on-one time with another participant. Afterwards, that person also gives the artist a verbal physical description of the woman with whom they met.

At the end, the women are confronted with the two sketches, side by side. In every case, the sketch created by the artist from their own description is harsher and less attractive than the sketch he creates based on the description given by the other party.” – Maclean’s

My friend’s description of me would look wildly different. As the experiment proved, all the flaws we see as such a huge part of how we look are invisible to others. Even strangers. We may think ourselves the most awkward, disproportionate, skewed version of what should be beautiful, but in reality, nobody sees it but us. My description of her would be the most beautiful of them all, but I’m afraid hers would be just as self-critical as my own. Because we all do it to ourselves. 96% of us, anyway.

Isn’t she beautiful?

The experiment states that only 4% of women consider themselves beautiful. The experiment, though brilliant, is also only measuring physical attractiveness.

In a strangely timed coincidence, as I was taking a (let’s say coffee break; I’ve been working like a packhorse these last few weeks) few minutes, I was also having a conversation with a friend about my fears of performing. I remember talking about my blog, and why I started it in the first place: because I wanted the world to see beyond my projected insecurities and into the heart of who I really am. This blog has become a journey of goals and dreams and struggles and hopes and challenges, but most of all of determination. A determination to get what’s on the outside to match what’s on the inside. And vice versa, as the situation may present. We were talking about singing and performing, and I’d just been left with a new message, ending thusly:

PS. I saw your video of the Damien Rice song. I love hearing your voice, and seeing you play!! Thanks for sharing that. I think you’re getting better. Or maybe more confident. Could it be both? Yes, I think so. 

Watching my YouTube channel back from when I first picked up the ukulele is kind of embarrassing. I struggled so much with the thought of anybody hearing me that I’d make this weird effort to be as good as I could… while avoiding the risk of being heard. Anyone who does music knows this is as ridiculous as going ghost hunting in the middle of the sunniest day of the year somewhere in the Mediterranean. I was going through the motions but my nerves held me back from diving in headfirst. I wanted to be a good singer, but I was too scared to practice in a building where there might be other people. I still struggle – we all remember the throwing up incident after I performed at an open mic for the first and only time – even last night, I made sure The Professor was out of the house for a good couple of hours before even attempting to sing. But then I did, and it was in an actual house, and I didn’t feel afraid, because there wasn’t anybody there. (Except the cat, but she’s a fan of pretty much anything in the world.) I let what came out on the outside actually be what I felt capable of on the inside. It’s still not great, because I don’t exercise the vocal muscles in a way that might make it good – but the end result was a match. A match between where I thought I could be right now and where I actually was. And wouldn’t it be incredible if Dove could conduct an experiment that showed the difference between how we view ourselves mentally and how we come across to the world? To illuminate the discrepancy between self-imposed distortion and how everybody else sees us?

I remember doing a writing exercise once where the instruction was to write a description of yourself from somebody else’s point of view. It could be a friend, lover, family member, or complete stranger. I remember being in tears after I was done because I realised how distorted my self image truly is. I don’t know why, but this experiment has shown me just how normal it is to degrade ourselves. We are never good enough, beautiful enough, confident enough, or smart enough. I thought it was something I dealt with alone, but this proves that most people see themselves as less than they actually are. And that’s horrible.

So today, if you’ve ever struggled to see yourself as anything but wonderful, maybe try one of those exercises for yourself. Let go of the unrealistic perfections you set for yourself that nobody else expects of you. If you’ve ever felt less than attractive, try describing yourself as another would. If you’ve ever felt too scared or shy… if you’ve ever let your own self-definition hold you back from what you want to be (and what you probably actually are)… listen to other people, and just for a moment, try to believe them. 

The proof is in the brilliance of demonstrations like this.

Now, completely unrelatedly, and because everybody deserves at least one laugh a day, I discovered something amazing about the voice control capacity of my new car this afternoon. I can’t wait for everyone else with a new Fiesta to discover this too. Enjoy

I know everyone says you need to take time to nurture yourself if you’re going to have any chance at functioning as an optimal human, but I can’t do it. I know I need to relax. I need nothing more than a good night’s sleep, a few hours and a glass of wine to do some reading or writing, an empty apartment so I can sing my heart out, or an evening free tasks and chores and fretting to just do something I love – something I love myself, or something I love to do with The Professor. It’s so hard with him no longer being in our home. Apparently I’ve also started grinding my teeth at night “with such intensity it’s a wonder the teeth didn’t fall out”. He recorded me one night — from across the room. (one round starts around 18 seconds, another around 56… no wonder I only have half a canine left!) I looked it up to see if it had anything to do with the jaw pain I’ve developed lately – it hurts to open my mouth wide, affecting chewing, singing, yawning – minds out of the gutter – but apparently this is something that happens with stress. And it’s affecting some of the things I really love to do. That video I posted last week? I was so excited to try out my new equipment. But it hurt like hell to just get the words out.

I know, attractive, right? I want my other vampire tooth back!

I’m going to stop whining and being such a bloody sad panda here because I said this was a post about happiness – though it’s more a philosophical one than one relating to my own. Despite this manic busy-ness that I’ve either stumbled into, taken upon myself or had thrown at me (I’m really not sure), I still have time to think. And there’s always so much going on inside my head.

Two happiness-related questions came up in conversation recently with The Professor. (When too sick or exhausted to do anything else, we philosophise. Or watch back seasons of The Bachelor. Don’t tell a soul.)

1. If a person lost their altruism, stopped caring/doing things for others above themselves, and became utterly selfish, would they be happier?

2. Is it better to live in ignorance of a certain knowledge or truth if it means being happier?

I think with both these hypotheticals, there’s a difference between day-to-day happiness and longer term, “ultimate” happiness. There’s also the defining factors of happiness that fit in as well, but I’ll get to that in a bit. If I remember.

The first question really stopped me in my tracks. I know my tendency to always put myself at the bottom of the priority list should be a good thing in a person, but lately it’s become harmful. I can’t take a bath without getting out after five minutes because there’s dishes or ironing to be done. I cancel social obligations and plans with friends if there’s an important deadline at work and I can take an extra few hours in the evening to work on it. But my problem is that I see everything else as a priority. Everything. In the moment, this is causing me harm – I’m becoming more anxious, losing weight, skipping meals, losing sleep, and feeling overwhelmed – because I insist on putting everything above my own wellbeing. But in the end, I’d hate myself if I did anything else. Taking an evening to do nothing but get a takeaway, read a good book, or go to the movies with The Professor is a foreign concept to me right now because there is so much that needs to be done. I’d feel like I was letting everyone around me down if I took that time to “self-nurture”. For the first few weeks at my job I’d feel guilty going to the lunch room to get a glass of water or some lunch because it might look like I have the time to do it. I’m fully aware this is crazy. Short term? It is. But long term… even if this is wrong (and you can tell that somewhere, I know it is)… I think it makes me happy. Knowing I did everything I possibly could for others gives me a sense of enormous wellbeing. But in the current moment, I’m burning out.

I think back to the question and think of examples of people I’ve encountered who were exactly the opposite. They put themselves first in every situation, took two-hour lunch breaks, charged every fancy meal to the company, and manipulated and bullied others to get them to do what they desired. And they were completely content with living this way. Yes, to many they came across as selfish and arrogant, but day to day, they seemed perfectly happy with their life, because they get what they want.

I spoke to a friend recently who makes an incredible impact on the world. A lot of you will know who this person is and will probably have spoken with this person numerous times. This person is an incredible soul whose life consists of doing enormous things to change people’s lives for the better in the biggest ways possible. This person’s entire life is comprised of efforts of continually making the world a better place. But speaking to this person, there’s a sadness. This person has no time to for self-nurturing, or spend time doing the things they love. But this person keeps doing it anyway, because (and I’m guessing here), of a similar personal value system. Leave the world a better place then when you found it, whether on the smallest scale of doing errands for somebody you love simply so they don’t have to, or by organising global fundraisers to help those in desperate need of help and making headline-breaking news in doing so.

From a study I was reading (a backwards take [does happiness result in selfishness, not vice versa], but still an interesting read:

Does temporary mood influence how fair or selfish we are in interpersonal situations? These three experiments predicted and found that when people have the power to allocate scarce resources between themselves and others in the dictator game, positive mood increased selfishness, and sad mood produced greater fairness. In a public setting (Experiment 1), happy persons kept more raffle tickets to themselves when making allocations, and Experiment 2 confirmed this effect in the laboratory. Experiment 3 showed that mood effects on selfishness were strongest when the external norms for fairness were relaxed. The results are discussed in terms recent affect-cognition theories, suggesting that positive mood recruits more assimilative, internally focused processing, while negative affect promotes more externally oriented, accommodative processing and thus greater concern with social norms. The implications of the findings for everyday interpersonal decisions are considered.

I will always advocate for altruism, maybe at the expense of immediate happiness, but with the hope that ultimately, it will make me happy. I’d feel like a terrible person if I did anything else – even if it does seem that selfish people are generally happier on a day to day basis. I just need to learn to figure out how to fit my own immediate happiness into the equation. (I kind of want to go off on an evolutionary tangent on why altruism is part of our programming in the first place, but that’s a discussion for another day.)

As a certain Ms. Keller once put it: “I would rather walk with a friend in the dark than alone in the light.” 

2. So, onto the second thought – is it better to be happier in ignorance of truth, or be aware of your entire reality, even if it lessens happiness? The Professor and I  had this debate last night, and I – now, at this point in my life – am firmly on the side of always being informed. I’ve lived life in the past believing things and keeping myself in the dark because I knew reality would hurt, and I liked believing something I didn’t quite question, but generally made me feel better. Coming to the conclusion that there is no cosmic, divine force or afterlife hurt, but ultimately, it’s made me happier. It’s made me value every minute of every day. Blissful ignorance goes against the value I place on knowledge and education. Again, there’s an element of short-term happiness and long-term in play here – and it comes down to a matter of how much weight you place on what you value. I imagine a scale of knowledge versus happiness existing in the present moment – there are so many things I’m certain I’d be happier not knowing – but if you don’t know about the things that could potentially upset you, then you can’t do anything about them. You can’t grow as a person unless you keep learning and experiencing, and I don’t believe hiding knowledge at the expense of happiness is a good thing.

This discussion came about as a result of informing people about his condition. He’s a very private person, and I think the main reason he didn’t want people to know was because knowing would equal them worrying and being less happy. But if it were you… if someone you loved and cared about hid what life was really like… wouldn’t you want to know, so you could do something – even if that did mean a temporary decrease in overall happiness (purely from the knowledge that someone you love is suffering)? I thought back to some past relationships, and some of the things I found out after they ended. Yes, they were tough things to learn – and at the time, I felt a fool, I felt stupid, and of course I was unhappy – something I thought was real for a period was most definitely not the whole picture, and it made me sad – but ultimately, the learning experience has led to personal growth, experience, and ultimately, strength… all resulting in my being a more informed, and thus happier, person. Maybe short term pain really does translate into long term gain. As long as your intent is never to actively hurt someone for the sake of hurting them, educating and informing is always worth more in the end. I think.

I’m going to wrap up this philosophical stuff and actually end on a few happy notes. The darkness, after all, defines where the light is, and there haven’t been days without some pretty awesome positives. Firstly of which, I suppose, would be my new car!

I couldn’t bear the thought (and experience) of The Professor being fresh out of hospital and now alone, and if our shared car was with him, I was unable to get to him. It was heartbreaking. That initiated my investigation into Actual Car Ownership. After talking with a good friend, who’s actually visited me at my new job, my work location also came into play. I’ve worked in dodgy areas before, and it’s not like I haven’t had hobo snotrockets fly into my actual mouth (welcome, new friends!) as a result – but I’m back out of the corporate world and into another area of downtown that isn’t exactly the most… comfortable, and it’s a ten minute walk from the bus stop. (Okay, there was a pile of poop and some vomit at the corner of the building for three days last week, and the streets are scattered with zombie-like street folk on substances half the time.) She affirmed my necessity of a vehicle – if not just to reach The Professor, but to decrease my likelihood of actually getting mugged (or thrown up at) on the way to work.

After one god-awful experience with my first ever dealership, I went to the place The Professor got the Focus – and it was amazing! No pressure, completely friendly and respectful – it was like going to visit old family friends more than salespeople. After much budgeting and deliberation, it was decided – I was getting the car I literally squealed at when I first drove into the lot. Oh, and it matches my lime green handbag exactly. Hello, Being a Grown Up!

I’ve also re-taken up (there’s a real word for that, I’m sure) an old hobby of mine I always enjoyed: photo shoots. I’ve developed a love for the more creative, conceptual shoots moreso than any other – pictures that go beyond the norm and tell an entire story. I’ve met some amazing people in the process, too, and already have some dates planned for things that evoke more of me… including a neo-goth type runway show sometime later in the year!

I’m also going to see my favourite band in the whole world next month. Around this time last year, The Professor and I took a road trip down to Minneapolis to see another excellent, excellent band, and it was the most fun ever. I’ve already seen Mumford and Sons, but it was in a tiny venue before they’d even released Sigh No More in North America. The electric feeling of absolute eagerness and anticipation was indescribable – those couple of hundred people, if that, all gathered in one place to experience something magical together. Passion is always best when shared with fellow enthusiasts, and this time there’s going to be thousands of them. On top, I discovered I had enough travel points accumulated through my Visa that I scored as three nights in an extra-fancy hotel, minutes from the stadium, for absolutely nothing. And this time, it’s domestic – meaning we can take his medication. Last year was a risk. This year – as with anything, really, may still be a risk, but that reassuring factor at least is there. It’s going to be one of those life-changing, soul-stirring, breathtaking experiences I’ll never forget, and after these last few weeks, knowing I’ll be sharing it with the love of my life makes me excited beyond words.

And lastly, I can’t go without addressing the generosity of friends, family, colleagues and complete strangers. I wanted to do something big for The Professor as a result of our recent situation – a fundraiser of some sort, but he was having none of it. “There are people who need help much more than I do, and if I can make it work on my own, then shouldn’t they be the ones to receive it?” Boys. I understand the pride component. I’m generally horribly awkward when it comes to even borrowing money from people, and I can’t imagine how uncomfortable it would be to have an entire group of people just giving it to you – I wouldn’t know how to thank them, and I’d feel, probably, a certain degree of embarrassment – so I understand where he’s coming from. But at the same time, I couldn’t do nothing. So I signed up for the Brain Tumour Foundation of Canada’s Spring Sprint, with the intention of power-walking my way across 2.5k (really, can you imagine me running?) one day in June and maybe getting a little financial support along the way to go toward the charity. It’s kind of exploded – and I now have a team of fellow runners, and we’re sitting at almost $1,000 thanks to the incredible generosity of some of those we’re lucky to have in our lives – and from people who read the story and spread the word in their communities, retweeted, etc. and felt compelled to help. I do wish the fundraiser was going to have a direct impact on my love, to get him the medication and to allow him to come home – but knowing that in this way, I’m kind of honouring his wishes, and that in some way, maybe the funds raised will go toward the kind of research and programs that will help people like him – and those others affected by this monster of a disease.

To read the story of why I’m doing this, to join our team, or simply to make a small donation, please click here. Anyone who helps in any way at all is an absolute rock star.

So yeah. Sadness… happiness… philosophy… life. Forgive the stream of consciousness.

“There’s always going to be bad stuff out there. But here’s the amazing thing — light trumps darkness, every time. You stick a candle into the dark, but you can’t stick the dark into the light.” - Jodi Picoult

This post is going to be about atheism, but I promise it’s going to be the most uplifting thing I’ve written in a long time. I was doing a couple of shoots this weekend, and was thrilled to be told by each photographer what a great and positive attitude I had – and I realised my blog may have not been projecting that lately. I do always tend to try to be uplifting, even in the face of difficulty and uncertainty – case in point, The Professor got a phone call the day before Valentine’s Day informing him he had to go into hospital  for two procedures on the day – and I still showed up at work with my pink frilly nails and a box of cookies for everybody while pumping out 8Tracks’s greatest indie love playlists – but sometimes there are just Things That Need To Be Talked About, and those things may not always fall into the happiest of categories. I apologise in advance if I offend anybody, as it is not my intention. But I too, am often offended by the ignorance and downright bigotry I see posted in the name of religion all over the place, and I feel I have the right to speak my feelings too, especially when they come from a place of genuinely wanting to rid the world of something so harmful.

My arrival at atheism, however, has finally filled me with a certainty that’s lifted the weight of the world from my shoulders. I’ve only tacked religion a handful of times here, from the time I got banned from every Catholic church in the city, to the time I laid out my entire spiritual belief system as it was a couple of years ago, to when I began to question the whole idea of a spiritual belief system at all, to perhaps the most difficult step in my journey toward atheism: accepting the illusion of permanence, and that this life is the only one we have. A tough one to swallow, at first.

I never was religious. I tried, I really did. I went to Catholic church with my ex husband and I attended devotional series through my former faith-based workplace. Looking back, I have to ask myself why – was it to fit in with those closest to me and avoid personal discrimination? Or was it simply to find an answer to the hopes I’d had all along – that after this life, after we are parted from those we’ve loved with all our hearts – that somewhere we’d get to see them again? I’ve learned so much over the last couple of years, and the toughest pill to swallow has been the lesson that just wanting something to be true doesn’t mean it is. There is something inherently uncomfortable about letting go of a hope guised as a semi-belief, but something so much more assuring and secure when you shift your beliefs toward evidence-based truth. Because with the realisation that this one life is all we have, there’s a push to live the absolute crap out of it, soak up the universe and spread joy and education and build infinite memories and be an instrument of positivity and integrity and leave this planet a little better off than when we found it. To build the minds we were equipped with and actually use them to take control of our own lives. To learn to think, solve, communicate, learn, and better the lives of those around us. That, I believe, is our purpose. Not to follow blindly in fear and hope for a reward while allowing others to suffer.

The first point I want to address is the struggle with hypocrisy when it comes to so-called believers. How many church-goers dress up on Sundays and head to their place of worship, driving right past the homeless or needy on the way there? There, they are asked to give money to support the “work of God”, when they could instead be spending that money in the real world making a real tangible difference. I can count the number of times I’ve been to church on one hand, but I’m assuming the “pass the hat” goes back to the days of tithing, where people would give one-tenth of their income to a religious organization as a divine ordinance and obligation of conscience – despite the Christian Bible stating “you tithe mint and rue and every edible herb but disregard the important duties of the law – judgment, mercy, honesty and love – yet these you have neglected, and ought to have performed.” I’m mixing my Mathews and Lukes there, but the message holds true today: why does the church still ask for all this money and not use it to lessen the suffering of others? Goodness, even for non-believers! We are all apparently created equally, after all. TIME magazine states bankers’ best guesses about the Vatican’s wealth are between $10-15 billion, and of this, Italian stockholdings and investment in banking, insurance and real estate run to $1.6 billion. Why blindly put money into a hat on a Sunday because you feel guilted into doing so when you could donate directly to a charity where it will actually have some tangible benefit in the world? I know many churches do some charitable work with the money. But it largely goes to religious organizations. Why not skip the middle man and give to where it’ll make most of a difference?

On the subject of hypocrisy, a lot of this stems from personal experience. Nowadays, I have a great relationship with my mother, but as some of you may remember, from about 2006-2010 we barely had a relationship after my parents’ separation, which largely stemmed from a drastic character shift following my mother’s religious conversion experience. I witnessed someone quoting the Bible and refusing to attend events on the Sabbath (including performances of my own) and proclaiming we needed to be saved, yet simultaneously being downright spiteful to both my father and myself. I remember it being the biggest reason I had to move out on my own as early as I did, being unable to take the discrepancy between something that was supposed to revolve around love and forgiveness and being spoken to and treated like a piece of dirt. I feel bad writing this now, as after a long and painful journey of reconciliation, we’re now in a good place – but this was definitely a contributing factor in my stepping away from religion.

Then I met, dated, got engaged and eventually married to my now ex-husband, a devout Roman Catholic from a very traditional, Franco-Manitoban family. We all know the story there – family begs son to leave his fiance because she’s not religious, family refuses to speak to the couple following the wedding, and family instills so much guilt into son that son quits his job with no notice, disappears into the country for three weeks, comes back with a shaved head, wild beard, mania and insistence of having “spoken to God” the whole time, lasts a couple of weeks becoming progressively stranger, and then finally leaves for good waving a crucifix around in the air. Oh, and then witnessing via remote webcam his entire troupe of family and friends emptying my house of all my possessions while I was at work. (Movie deal anyone?)

The thing is, I knew our relationship wasn’t how things were meant to be. I knew I was unhappy, I knew we disagreed on so many fundamental things, and I knew we didn’t even enjoy the same things in life. But things weren’t horrible, and I figured, just like anybody else, that this is what life is all about. Fairytale soulmates exist in movies and stories, and it’s through a lifetime of hard work you try to make things work with the one you end up with. (Sidenote: I cannot believe after this ordeal, I was shown otherwise, and I will forever live a lifetime of awe and amazement at how I got so lucky). We did try. I remember a plethora of discussions on our views with regards to religion, and the one thing I could never understand was how someone could proclaim so publicly to be of a certain religious denomination while at the same time disagreeing with much of the Pope’s teachings and actions, disagreeing with some of the Bible itself, and actually placing his own wife and family beneath the almighty God (“I’d be okay if you all died, because I would have the Lord”) – really? How do I even begin to debate this logic? I remember his family begging him in secret in the weeks leading up to the wedding to leave me, his chosen bride, the one he had committed to vow his life to “in the eyes of God” because I would lead him away from his religion. I remember his infinite struggle between trying to be a “good Christian son” and a good husband. The two led to his mental breakdown, a shitload of trauma, and all for the sake of “putting God first”. When it came to the family – again, judge not lest…? (You should see the absolute mortification plastered across their faces in all the pictures. It’s hilarious. It kind of looks like they just lost their son to a Heaven’s Gate indoctrination – somewhat relatedly, this music video is pretty great.)

Now, to address something a friend of mine e-mailed me about when she heard I was writing this post: judgment. I had messages coming in before I’d even finished writing this. The Bible apparently states something along the lines of Judge not, and ye shall not be judged, condemn not and ye shall not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven” (Luke 6:37). My (Christian) friend emailed me a story about how he has found himself “living a life of fear and judgment” due to his heart belonging to Jesus. He compared his experience to one of his own friends, who has “lived a life of that same judgment and downright misery through being gay.” He talked about his own experience of hatred for Christians in the same vein as that that exists for the LGBT community. That he would never judge someone “for their choice” and wished he could receive the same respect. At this point, I didn’t really know what to say. I love this friend dearly, but I was speechless Yes, it’s awful for anyone to experience persecution – but religion is a choice. Sexuality, race, or anything else you’re simply born with is not a choice. Religion is a choice to believe without evidence or critical thinking. It’s a choice to ally yourself to something that claims to stand for peace and unity but instead causes probably more division, judgment, and harm to the world than anything. Look at what Romney was fighting for last election. Look at the masses of “Christians” claiming God would judge America for abortion and gay marriage. Yet that same God doesn’t judge America for its murderers, rapists, and allowance of abuse, intolerance, disease and poverty? Religion is a choice to believe blindly. It’s not the same thing. 

Really?

What about God supposedly never giving us more than we can bear? I hear this a lot from people either going through difficult times themselves, or trying to offer some form of encouragement to someone who is. “I’ll pray for you”, they say. Can we stop for a second and see how much prayer has actually affected the outcome of something in the real world? I’ve had people offer to pray for The Professor and me as a result of our recent situation. The legal system in place to provide assistance to those in dire, life-or-death need, is such that he has to leave our home and live alone just to qualify to have medications covered a little more than they already are. Medications he needs to stay alive. It’s heartbreaking, and wrong, and I’m sorry, but prayers are not going to take away his cancer. Science is, medicine is.  Homeopathic remedies and words uttered into the void aren’t going to make this stop. God never giving us more than we can bear is a crock. People get dealt shitty hands in life sometimes. It’s statistics. To personalise them and say “God did it” is childish. I get it – it goes back to the idea of hope. To place hope in something that doesn’t exist I guess may lift some of the anxiety from the reality – especially when countless people across the world are doing the same thing. But if we’re going to invest time and thought and energy into something that’s never been proven to actually accomplish anything – can’t we instead begin to invest in things that actually help? Your life would look very, very different were it not for science. I don’t know if I can say it’d look much different without God.

One of the last things I want to address is the issue of religion in schools. This could be a blog post all of its own, but (and you’ll have to excuse the irony here) – holy crap. Something that is a choice of lifestyle and has no base of fact or evidence does not constitute an education. I know people who went through private religious education emerging as fully grown adults having no concept of procreation. Genuinely believing that nothing more than “loving each other” and trusting in “God’s right timing” was al that was needed to produce a baby. These places have no right being called schools. They dilute the world’s knowledge base by injecting it with blind faith, ignorance, stories and prejudice and teach the vulnerable that it’s fact. They teach new generations not to think for themselves or seek out knowledge, but to rely on an invisible creator as the driving force behind everything that happens in their life. With this mentality, as a species, we will go backwards. Schools are in desperate need of classes on critical thinking, on debate and philosophy, of scientific advancement in health and astronomy. On how to be a fucking decent human being. As Douglas Adams once said, ““I’d take the awe of understanding over the awe of ignorance any day.

A religious “education” is a fear spread to the children of theists at an age where they are not capable of fully forming their own opinions, teaching them to ignore logic and fact and brainwashing them into accepting something with no evidence as truth.  It promotes division, not equality, and is based on a system of fear and punishment. Where is the good in a human being if that good comes not from a place of strong morals and the desire to be a good person, but a place of desire for reward and fear of punishment instead? I don’t think I’m going to burn in hell for not believing. But I’m going to keep trying my damnedest to be a decent person anyway.

I’m at 2,600 words here. I’ve got to wrap this thing up. So I’m going to leave you with a quote from the ever-brilliant Ricky Gervais:

“Science seeks the truth. And it does not discriminate. For better or worse it finds things out. Science is humble. It knows what it knows and it knows what it doesn’t know. It bases its conclusions and beliefs on hard evidence -­- evidence that is constantly updated and upgraded. It doesn’t get offended when new facts come along. It embraces the body of knowledge. It doesn’t hold on to medieval practices because they are tradition.”

I think I’m a pretty fucking awesome person without God, but I might be a little biased.  When I was agnostic, I kind of always suspected that if there were a God, this was all some colossal game of his own devising, and if there did happen to be a heaven, the ones who’d end up there were the ones that had the guts to use the brains with which they were equipped, to question the stories, to forge their way in the world with the knowledge and the universe that surrounded them. Not the blind servants who accepted without question tales of talking snakes and promoted human division and repeated empty phrases and built structures in his honour and sucked the hell up to buy their ticket in. I think there’s the making of a good story there.

I apologise if I’ve offended anyone. It really, really was never my intent. But if – and there is such a thing as “religious freedom of speech” – then if the intent is simply to state why I believe what I do, and who I am, with the genuine intent of opening minds and raising questions that may lead people to a better way of life… then all I ask is that even if you disagree, you’ll be respectful in doing so. Ironically, religion sometimes has a way of bringing out the worst in people. Whether you believe in a God, many Gods, demi-Gods (I’m getting a bit Doctor Who here), you have a brain. My only hope is that it’s put to good use in this world – this world that could be so, so much better if only more brains were used in a more practical, moral, and logical way.

I know people (myself included) are generally pretty crappy at watching videos linked on a blog page, but this is too important, and I feel every soul in the world should take the seven minutes it’d take to read a couple of stories in the Metro and actually pay attention to something important. Because this affects everyone, and something small that may have happened twenty years ago can twist and distort someone’s mental well-being, confidence, and view of themselves all these years later. We need to change the norm that bullying and intimidation are just “part of life”. We need to stop being told the answer is to develop thicker skins, or that some people are just mean, and that we should brush it off. Because for some of us, we can’t. It seeps into our very selves and tangles its way around the fibres of our own psyche, resulting in what’s often a lifetime of damage and distortion.

Bullying was part of the norm when I was a kid. I think it’s pretty much a British institution in all parts of the country. I remember being picked on as a younger child of ten, maximum, for my “monkey arms”. I wasn’t allowed to shave my legs until 12 and I remember secretly shaving my entire arms with my dad’s razor every day and wearing long sleeves to PE classes for years afterward. The words of a handful of small boys evaporated from their worlds the moment they left the playground, but they burrowed their way into my self image well into my teens. I was different and ugly. The fact my mother chopped all my hair off because I wasn’t good enough at keeping it untangled didn’t help matters, and neither did an unfortunate incident of an inadvertent whack to the face from a fellow schoolmate trying to catch a ball – which knocked out my two front teeth and had them grow back – well, like this.

When I arrived at senior school I was gawkward. I was desperately trying to grow out the haircut and had fourth less teeth and a fresh set of nineties braces in my mouth. The ones you had to rub wax all over so you didn’t end the day looking like some kind of vampire fresh from the kill. In most British schools, there’s a time-honoured social hierarchy. At the top are the popular kids. These are the bullies. At the time, I though it had everything to do with looks and social life, but looking back, some of those bastards (mostly girls) were some of the ugliest people externally as well as inside I’ve ever known. I think it had more to do with knowing the right people, and behaving a certain way. Do like us, and be one of us. You’ll be immune. Then there was the other side. The bullied. The more intelligent kids who got picked on for reasons ranging from acne and unusual face structures to being too clever (and nobody wanted to be a boffin) or, heaven forbid, carrying a rucksack with both straps. Then there were the handful of kids who tended to attach themselves to either side – but weren’t full on bully or bullied. The ones who’d go around with the popular kids, but never actually take part in the instigating, or the ones who’d stick with the other side, not actually bullied themselves but firmly allying themselves to the right side. That’s where I was. I wasn’t bullied, I think because I was kind of a sweet, if awkward kid, but it broke my heart to watch my friends have things thrown at them, called awful names in class and publicly humiliated, racistly joked about or lock themselves in a toilet cubicle for hours they were crying so hard. Some of these people remain very good friends to this day. I guess something about shared pain building bonds, or something.

It was interesting that at this point in my life the effects hadn’t fully taken root to the point of damaging my own self image. I was able to function normally; I took swimming and figure skating and ju-jitsu lessons, I went to stage school, and put on Spice Girls shows for the neighbours. At that age, I still managed to be a relatively confident kid.

I moved to Canada at fourteen and was blown away by the world of difference in school culture. Kids weren’t divided into good and bad; kids were divided into a hundred types of person and style, and I couldn’t believe how welcomed I was into so many lives. I joined the IB programme, hung out in the physics room at lunchtime making science puns on the whiteboards, performed at a punk show with a studded collar to a drama hall full of students, marched in a fashion show and went on Shakespeare trips in snowy cabins. But amidst that, I think the seeds of self-doubt were sown – in addition to ones I hadn’t realised had begun to take root many years prior. My one insecurity in high school was my accent. Yes, people seemed to love it, but I’ve always been softly spoken. I remember in my first year there having to give a presentation in history class, and the teacher stopping me part-way telling me in front of everyone how I was talking too fast and too quietly, and how nobody could understand a word I was saying. I was different. Those words became branded onto me and led to years of terror when it came to speaking in front of other people. In a post from 2009:

Not only was I exposed to the world of bullies throughout childhood, but I was exposed to words that stuck. At home, I could never compete with my younger brother. I was never as good or, in my eyes, as loved. At times I felt downright hated. The idea of not being good enough stuck well into my adult life, and affected every aspect of it. At work, I’d break down in fits of tears because I thought I was being judged poorly, or because I didn’t feel I was meeting standards – I believed the impossibly high standards I set for myself were equivalent to the substantially more reasonable ones set by those around me, and continually felt a failure. I felt for years that I was never good enough as a friend because I was different – I wasn’t into the popular stuff that most people enjoyed doing. I played video games and read books. I didn’t go to the mall on weekends and I didn’t go to parties on Friday nights.  Everyone else did, and that meant everyone else was more exciting than me. Everyone else would rather be friends with someone more normal. More exciting. The tumultuous events of my twenties led to several people cutting ties with me, and that only fuelled the idea I wasn’t worthy of friendship.

["It sounds like things are really looking up for you and that you’re happy in your life right now and I think that’s fantastic. It took a long time to find what you were looking for, including relationship abuse, a divorce, a partner’s stressful family, coping with a boyfriend who has a debilitating condition and then when things got too much, what happened in December. Up until the very last point, I was with you every step of the way, but at the end of it all, there was just nothing left to give. If you have friends now that you know will stick with you through thick and thin and are the rocks at the bottom, that’s wonderful and it makes me really happy to know that you’ve found those people. With that said, I just can’t be that friend – I just don’t have enough in me to be what you need. I’m happy to see you if we run into each other and catch up, but that’s all that I have right now. I’m sorry if that hurts your feelings, but I respect you enough to be honest. I still think that you’re a good person and I’m genuinely happy that things are looking up for you. Thanks for understanding and I’ll see you around."

But in the past couple of years, I really have found those rocks. And words cannot express my gratitude for those people. 

I'm getting off topic here, but I want to summarise the main message and post this video again, not just because it does an infinitely better job of getting it across than I just did, but because it needs to be fucking watched.

We all have the capacity to change the world, to be mindful of what we put out into it, and to remind ourselves that no, words don’t die the moment they’re uttered. They just begin to live that day. And if they’re the wrong ones, they can eat away at self esteem and potential for years, and the long-term damage to a soul can be catastrophic. Don’t take part in what the “norm” has been for as long as I’ve been on this earth. Don’t let your children tease others, or tell them they need to toughen up if they fall victim to schoolground cruelty. Don’t give up doing what’s right for the sake of fitting in, whether at school, at work, or in your social group. Don’t sit by and watch it happen to someone else, because sometimes our silence can be equally as destructive. Don’t accept the way things are. Be aware of what you’re putting out into the world. And always, always stand up for the right thing. 

Make sure they’re the right ones.

But recent life hasn’t all been smooth. I’ve always maintained the importance of eternally moving forward, no matter in which direction, but for a little while over the few months leading up to Christmas, I felt myself being pulled toward a dangerous destination. A place where old, distorted ways of thinking wrapped their way around the progress and masqueraded as reality. And that called for action.

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From late 2011 until about spring 2012, I started to see a counsellor. I also started taking medication for my anxiety for the first time in my life. I went through a ten-week course with the Anxiety Disorders Association of Manitoba, I did my homework, and after a few months, my case was closed. But toward the end of 2012, I found myself immersed every day in what felt like a pool of toxins that began to insidiously creep in and distort my entire mentality. No longer was I spreading my wings on the vast ocean of possibility, but I was becoming caged, torn between my own vision of capabilities and the person I had to be in order to comply to that environment’s standard. I’ve always been motivated by achievement and surpassing others’ expectations, but when your wings are clipped and all you’re left with is a dream of what you could be doing, you begin to question the capabilities you had in the first place. Everyone around me told me what a huge, positive difference I’d made. But those with authority over me saw nothing but someone stepping beyond their role, taking on too many “extra-curriculars” – necessities, in my mind, for a successful operation – and pointing out all the places things could be done better. I was someone who didn’t fit the corporate mould.

“I’m too good for that, there’s a mind under this hat;” words to a favourite song come to mind. “I speak because I can to anyone I trust enough to listen; you speak because you can to anyone who’ll hear what you say.”

I mean no malice in writing these words, but I have to be true to the reason that led me down the path of old habits and distorted imaginings, things that led me toward the place I used to be. I started feeling that if all my achievements, hard work, creativity and dedication to bettering something meant nothing, then maybe the same held true for myself as a person. Maybe the same held true for my friendships and relationships; maybe I personally felt I was doing all the right things but maybe I had it all wrong. So I started looking for signs. And in doing so, I saw my insecurities manifest from thin wisps of possibility into a corporeal monster that tore away at everything I held dear. Something had to be done. Something had to be done now.

So I went to see a psychiatrist. Re-opened my case with my counsellor, who, after a session, recognised where I was and wanted someone who specialised in mental health to help me. I’d been on the medication for about a year, but I apparently should have been getting infinitely more benefit from it than I was.

The assessment consisted of a one-hour booking which turned into a near two-hour session with me, my counsellor, and a young psychiatrist. I think I threw him a little by being so on the ball with my own mentality, and after an extensive fleshing out of my childhood, my cross-continental uprooting, my traumatic experience of a “marriage”, my amazing but heartbreakingly ill partner and my increasingly toxic work environment, he decided I “didn’t fit any one mould.” I learned that within classifications of the various mental illnesses any one person could have, there were “cluster A, B and C trait” characteristics, each subsequent one being less common than the last, but still possibly present. I didn’t have a textbook anxiety disorder. I definitely didn’t have social anxiety, which explains why I felt so out of place in the ten-week program I attended a year ago. I didn’t have generalised anxiety either, but I did have B- and C-cluster traits of a “non specified anxiety disorder”. Additionally, I had the same for borderline personality disorder. He made it very clear I didn’t have BPD   – but my heightened concern about others’ perception of me being “good enough” and continual fear of abandonment fall into that realm.

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The fact that I didn’t fit neatly in one box didn’t surprise me. I never have in any area of my life, and only recently found peace with simultaneously being a fiercely passionate creative with a love for arts and language and an enormous sci-fi, psychology and science nerd with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. I never have been typical, and this plagued me for most of my life. But I think I’ve learned to embrace the uniqueness – and so the diagnosis, as it were, didn’t upset me. He recommended a change in medication, some mental exercises, and to check in with my doctor and counsellor regularly over the next couple of months.

“There is nothing less romantic, literary, or lyrical than the language of pathology, diagnosis, symptom checklists. As I read through these checklists over and over again I was struck by the harshness, the crudeness of the terminology. And once the evaluation process began, more and more distinctly unpoetic terms were added to the lists, as the problems quickly grew in scope and seriousness.”  — Priscilla Gilman

It’s hard to put this stuff out into the world, to admit that you’re flawed, but I want to remember the journey. I’m not scared of being judged for it because I know I’m really doing something about it. And I tell myself that makes me brave. On top of that, I am so much more than a diagnosis. I’m someone who takes action when things get sucky, I’m someone dedicated to bettering myself, I’m someone who makes goals and follows through on them, and I’m someone who feels the fear and goes ahead and tries anyway. I’m someone who sees beauty in the universe and feels so very deeply, and I’m someone who’ll be a brilliant friend if you’ll let me. I am so much more than a diagnosis, and this is merely a stop on the map that will lead me to where I believe I’m supposed to be. I know a lot of people are reluctant to turn to medication when it comes  to issues of mental health, usually due to the strange notion that becoming dependent on them is both terrifying and bad. Is it so terrifying when one has something as terrible as cancer and “depends” on medication for a better quality of life? Why the double standard when it comes to issues of the mind?

So it’s been a couple of weeks. The first night I began the new meds I was promptly knocked the hell out for a good fifteen hours, and struggled to stay awake past 8 PM for the next few nights. But that very first day, I was blown away by how quickly I felt so much better. It felt like I’d been living with my heart in a vice that had finally been released and allowed to breathe. I felt free, and it felt strange – it felt like the continual physical tension and weight of anxiety and worry I hadn’t even realised was there was gone. I was just about to go into a brand new job, and I found myself excited, without a trace of fear. It was beyond bizarre. But I couldn’t be happier. This freeing has left me with a sense of urgency – to dive into the world around me and do all those things I’d set out to do, knowing how much easier they’re all going to be. Knowing that the joy and adrenaline will finally outweigh the fear. My first week at work is going swimmingly, and the plan is to get up and perform at an open mic within the next two weeks (without throwing up afterward).

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I think this is the start of brilliant things.

The Professor and I started writing this book together in January, and as of now, we’re sitting at about 25,000 words. Not bad for something written mostly during lunch hours, but still not close enough to where I’d hoped to be as 2012 wrapped itself up with the rest of the year’s gifts. We’ve changed strategies along the way; though we have immense admiration for each other’s craft, we decided our writing styles are far too different to ever really work well together (and rightly so; Gaiman and Pratchett are the only two authors that should be allowed to marry lols with the beautifully sinister), and cutting down on one to mesh better with the other  did injustice to each original – so we’ve teamed up in a different way. I’ve always loved creating the atmosphere of a story, but I’ve always sucked at coming up with things with which to populate it. Most of my creative writing involves solitary characters who never encounter anybody and thus never have to speak. Their stories usually go on for a few pages and though by the end the reader can fully visualize the environment and feel the character’s emotions, most of the action takes place in the character’s own head. Heads can indeed be scary places, but you can’t pump out a novel where nothing actually happens outside of them and expect to do well. Especially if it’s horror. Unless maybe those heads start falling off.

One thing I’ve been wrestling with since beginning this process is the magic balance between literary fiction and mass-market appeal. I know the horror field. It’s ruled by one Stephen King whose stories have sold over 350 million copies and have been turned into movies, comic books, TV series and quilted toilet paper. He also cranks out 2,000 words every day, and I suppose when you’re producing that amount of material, your chances of something striking a chord with the general public are infinitely (well, I suppose about two thousand times) more likely than had you spent all that time perfecting the one novel. This is why I could never, ever do NaNoWriMo. I’ve tried quantity over quality, and it usually results in something I want to throw into the proverbial fire.

But then again, some people value story, others value style. Maybe I stick to the latter because I struggle so much with the actual ideas. Maybe those who can crank out five novels a year are brilliant when it comes to imagination, but find themselves lacking in the delivery. But maybe it doesn’t matter. I remember in writing class sitting next to a guy whose style couldn’t have been more different. His favourite author was Nick Hornby. His stories covered entire days in a single paragraph. He could convey character, setting and plot in a sentence. He was brilliant at something I couldn’t do, and though I didn’t dislike it, I didn’t – for lack of a better word – respect it in my personal sense of what constitutes good writing. To me, writing is all about building an atmosphere and planting the reader firmly inside a character’s head, where they are carried not through events but through emotions, noting the world around them as if transformed into nothing larger than a field mouse, every noise in the night or rumbling of the street far bigger and more sinister than it should be. There are people who’ll put a book of mine down after the second page because they’ve read 500 words and all that’s happened is someone’s gone down a flight of stairs. (Okay, yes, that’s in my novel, but I promise it’s the most interesting trip down the damn stairs you’ve ever read.)

But no matter how shiny the prospect is of one day having a book of mine sitting on a Barnes & Noble shelf, I can’t bring myself to effectively “dumb it down” for the masses. I was thinking about this last night in the bathroom. I’m going to go ahead and say I can’t remember what I was doing in there for the sake of moving on quickly.  Most of the people I know share a similar stance as me on the music industry: the artists that win the awards, get cardboard cutouts of themselves stuck in every store and have their own line of dog food aren’t the ones who put something creative out into the world. They’re the ones who deliver cookie-cutter tunes and fit into the molds that best reach the mass demographic: young people with disposable incomes who haven’t yet developed an appreciation for artistic instrumentation or lyrical mastery. The music charts are ruled by those that cater to the mass demographic, picking their songs from the cauldron of guaranteed hits and wrapping them in formulaic, predictable, easily digestible packages. That doesn’t mean they’re bad – even I can’t resist a bit of David Guetta every now and then, and I think I once covered a Britney Spears record - it just means the level of talent is equal to the level of genuine respect and appreciation. And thinking of it like that, I don’t care if it takes me an entire week to perfect a single page. I don’t really care if my story is never picked up by a publishing giant. I want to strike a chord with those who value well-crafted sentences and imagination.  I want to write something I personally respect. I know horror and poetic prose may not appear the best of companions, but I’ve fallen in love with the idea of fusing two worlds I’m so passionate about.

People are always surprised when I tell them I’m writing horror. I don’t look particularly troubled, I live in a turquoise room strung with white fairy lights, I play quite possibly the least badass instrument ever, Halloween means dressing up as  superheroes, not vampires, and I own cats. Not ravens. I subscribe to science magazines, bake cakes, drink tea, cry when animals get hurt, and am quite possibly the most hopeless of all romantics. So why the attraction to the dark side?

It’s a dark world we live in.

Because in darkness, there lies the strongest hope. With all genres of fiction, the reader is invited to play a role. With mysteries, they must hunt clues, question characters and solve problems. With fantasy, they must suspend their disbelief and immerse themselves fully into worlds different from our own, accepting all their strange rules as reality. But with horror, readers must feel, imagine, and create these worlds themselves. After the pages have been turned, they are left haunted,  questioning their own reality, secretly wondering what may lurk behind the bathroom door or what’s really making those noises in the hallway. A very real sense of uncertainty is developed through turning the familiar upside down. That’s the sign of great art, I always thought. Creating something so strong that genuine emotions are stirred within the viewer or reader. Making something that tangles itself around its recipient’s thoughts and makes them feel something real.

When situations are most dire, emotions are strongest. Fear usurps all other senses, but hope is magnified exponentially. Never does one realise how much their world is worth until it’s threatened with extinction. The reader is left with a changed view of whatever their situation may be; an unsettling disquiet lingers long after the chapter has been closed. Through horror, perhaps the strongest of all emotions emerge: hope and fear. These are the things that drive our most steadfast of actions, thoughts and convictions. And after all, only through being dragged through the deepest of darknesses can we truly appreciate the light. And creating that, I think, is quite beautiful.

My first short horror story was published today. Visit Amazon or MagCloud to download a digital copy, or e-mail me for a PDF!

We go all out for the holidays.

The change began over the Christmas holidays, over which I couldn’t get the nagging little thought of work out of my mind. I’d had my annual performance review right before buggering off for two weeks of hot chocolate and Every Christmas Episode of Everything Ever (Community in claymation was the clear winner of the awesomeness category), and it hadn’t gone as I’d hoped. I’d submitted my self review about a week prior, and finally felt proud as I handed it in, seeing real achievements listed throughout. I’d built a network that spanned across the country, initiated and developed regular newsletters and communication pieces that engaged people, managed a social media presence, become chair of the global LGBTA steering committee, spearheaded a regional employee recognition campaign to promote organizational values, and been chosen as one of only fifteen worldwide colleagues to represent the company at a 3,000-strong attendee summit for corporate diversity. I’d been told they’d never had anyone like me, and I handed in my review (along with several areas for improvement, of course) with a real sense of pride. I’ve always had issues with self-doubt and feelings of not being good enough, but I was confident this year, I’d made some pretty big strides.

But apparently not. In 2013, I was to be spending less time on communications and more time on filing and learning the Canadian pension system, studying handbooks and learning the legal terminology needed to draft complex invoice schedules. I was to be more passionate about clerical duties and less about issues that are important at a corporate level, but have been lacking at a local one. I was to stop bringing forward new ideas and remember my position. And that haunted me for the next two weeks.

I’ve known for a while there’s been a discrepancy between my values, passions and strengths and the ones expected in my current position. I’ve tried desperately to bring forward what I believed was valuable and much-needed change, but there’s only so much you can do from an entry-level position. Everyone around me has always told me I need to be somewhere creative, somewhere that plays to my strengths and allows me to do what I love most of all: writing, design, social media, communications, and building a culture of respect, diversity and inclusion.

So over Christmas, I tried to find one. I found a position I felt would be perfect, but didn’t hold my hopes too high. Everyone and their dog makes the new year’s resolution of finding a new job, and the market would be saturated. It also asked for a professional qualification and several years’ experience in an industry I didn’t really have, but I applied anyway.

Then I was asked for an interview.

Then I was asked if I was interested in an even more ideally suited position: Communications Manager at a magazine/publisher. I spent 45 minutes talking with someone who saw everything I stood for, who was on the same page when it comes to relating with a team, building a culture of respect and creativity, who valued my efforts as key communications ones, not administrative “extras”. We talked openly about my anxiety and how I was continually trying new things to tackle it. We talked about psychology – he’d been researching the Myers-Briggs personality model hours before my interview because he, too, felt people work better together when they understand each other. I may have done a happy clap at this point. The next day I was called back and offered the position. I was told told one of the main reasons for the decision was because he’d read my blog the previous night. This very one right here, where I write about my struggles, my goals, my dreams… ironically, this very blog which a current colleague had forwarded to my supervisor in attempts to get me into trouble became the very reason someone else wanted me around. It was everything I’d ever wanted in a work environment.

So I accepted! I gave three weeks’ notice on Monday, and was blown away by the plethora of e-mails from people all over the world telling me how much of an impact I’d had. How integral I’d been to people and how much I’d done to stand up for what’s right. I had people in other countries I’d never even met telling me how much they’d miss me. And on a day where I felt scared, nervous about taking a leap into the unknown and questioning my ability to live up to what I hope to be, it was exactly what I needed.

via [http://gigiare.tumblr.com/]

I can’t wait for this next chapter. I’m terrified, but I refuse to let that dictate my actions and mentality. I’m incredibly grateful, and more than anything, I’m excited. It’s kind of what I’ve wanted my entire life.

The evolution of New Year’s Eve is an interesting one, isn’t it? I remember as a kid going over to one of the neighbours’ houses and spending it crammed in a bedroom with my younger brother and the neighbours’ kids. I’m still friends with them today, all these years later. I remember spending hours taking turns playing Prince of Persia (2D!) with them until midnight hit and going downstairs to find both sets of parents absolutely loaded, and being completely mortified. That night was probably the reason I didn’t drink a thing until I was in my twenties.

I remember New Year’s Eve 1999 and all the excitement everyone around the world was sharing. I was 14, and I dressed up in the sparkliest silver dress I could find. We went to an out-of-town party in a big place where they had several halls, one designated for the under 18s. I can’t remember what was in it, but I think it was a fun time.

I remember New Year’s Eve in university, being 19 or so, having my first proper “group” of friends all come over for board games. I remember my parents coming home after their party and my dad joining us for a few rounds of Taboo. I think we played charades, too. I remember the feeling of pure content being surrounded by a group who simply adored each other’s company.

I remember New Year’s Eve newly single, sitting in my dad’s study writing out my resolutions for the upcoming year and chatting with an old friend overseas, comforted by the triumph of human connection over several time zones and thousands of miles.

I remember New Year’s Eve in Palm Springs, California, with a group of people I thought were going to become my family. I remember New Year’s Eve newly married, sad, scared and worried, because those people wanted me gone.

I remember the only time I ever ventured out on a Proper New Year’s Party. Tickets were $75, including cover and all drinks (which nobody could get anyway with the queues permanently thirty people long), but it was probably the worst one I’ve ever had. Someone had rented the Art Gallery and transformed it into an amazing venue with different themed rooms, DJs, even music on the roof, but their coat check volunteers had abandoned ship halfway through the night, and the holding space became a free-for-all looting session. Everyone was stealing everybody else’s belongings, and I remember sitting on the floor crying amidst the riot with my coat and camera missing. The police ended up getting called. I waited freezing for a good three hours before finally being able to get a cab home.

I remember last New Year’s Eve, going out for dinner with a splintered group of people who huddled in small clusters around a long table. I remember the lemon soup being the most delicious thing I’d ever had, and I remember being extremely thankful for a few people there, but more worried about being judged by the rest. I remember being new. I remember the excitement as 12:00 rang in my six-month anniversary with The Professor, and running off on our own down empty snow-filled streets, setting off fireworks before dashing inside to warm up and drink peach champagne. I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.

But I think this New Year’s Eve is going to be my favourite. I get to spend it with a handful of some of the best people I’ve ever known. If 2012 has taught me anything (well, it taught me a lot of things, but perhaps more so than anything else), it’s the value of actual love. Not just romantic love, although a year and a half later, I still can’t believe how lucky I am – but platonic love, too.

They say your real friends know you inside out, all the bad as well as the good, and love you anyway. But this year I actually saw that happen. I put my friends through a lot of crazy this year. I lost a few people because of it, but a handful were there through it all, all the tears, all the panic, all the worry and all the downright insane. There are things I put people through this year that I don’t even understand. They certainly didn’t, but they were there anyway, with hugs, reassurances in the middle of the night, and the occasional bottle of wine. They’ve shown me the meaning of the true human connection – when love outweighs absolutely anything else.

Friendship is a pretty amazing thing from a scientific standpoint – investing time, emotion and energy into a relationship without any evolutionary gain. The capacity to care is beautiful. It’s also pretty incredible when those relationships are completely open. I did some things this year I’d be embarrassed to write about here, but when you know someone is truly there for you, those things don’t become embarrassing because they’re crazy, they become embarrassing because you feel you let the other person down. Because they think you’re awesome, and sometimes, you’re not. 2012 was the year I realised with some people, I truly could be exactly the version of myself I am right now, and I didn’t have to worry about being judged. And for that, I’m simultaneously sorry and grateful beyond words.

I’m not going to make resolutions for 2013 – I have a pretty good 30 Before 30 on the go, and I’ve always maintained that you shouldn’t wait for an excuse like the turning of a calendar to start making things happen. I look back on 2012 with a deepened appreciation for those dearest to me – my friends, my family, and my beautiful love, and I make them a hope and a promise: that they will always know how cherished they are, and that for their sake, I will always remember what I’ve learned, where we’ve been, what we’ve shared… and use that to be the best possible person I can be.

And for anyone reading these words, Happy New Year. I hope your 2013 brings introspection, courage, adventure and education. I hope your understanding of yourself and the world around you deepens and with it, an appreciation. I hope you chase your dreams, even if you’re afraid, because every day in this upcoming year is another chance to do something amazing. I hope that even if you screw something up, there’s something to be said about people that try. Besides, with the biggest cock-ups come the biggest lessons, and lessons are awesome. I hope you learn great things, read great books, and hear songs that set your soul on fire and make you proud to be part of the human race. I hope you remember small kindnesses and compliment strangers, and I hope, at least once per day, you find one thing to smile about.

“…because nerds like us are allowed to be unironically enthusiastic about stuff. Nerds are allowed to love stuff, like jump-up-and-down-in-‎the-chair-can’t-control-yourself love it. When people call people nerds, mostly what they’re saying is ‘you like stuff.’ Which is just not a good insult at all. Like, ‘you are too enthusiastic about the miracle of human consciousness’.” – John Green

Last year’s Cannes Lions award winners were nothing short of brilliant, and 2012 didn’t disappoint. Here are my favourite examples of human brilliance from this year’s International Festival of Creativity:

This hilarious ad for New Zealand, the “most creative country in the world”, made me want to move there:

Dads in Briefs: A campaign for why you should buy an air conditioner

Gandhi Bookstores: A fun invitation to keep reading

Courageousness calls for a Carlsberg:

DirecTV: SO many LOLs, especially the last one. Don’t wake up in a roadside ditch. Stop taking in stray animals. Don’t have a grandson with a dog collar. Don’t have your house explode. And don’t re-enact scenes from Platoon with Charlie Sheen. Get rid of cable – get DirecTV:

Coca Cola Security Cams – had seen this floating around earlier in the year, but a nice reminder that humans can be pretty decent sometimes:

And my absolute favourite ad of this year’s bunch: Zonajobs – Grandmother

The local run is almost over, but Winnipeggers can catch the festival again at the WAG in March 2013

Five hours later, I emerged with a decent start. I had Tennyson and parts of Kerouac immortalised on my skin (though the stencil for the latter decided to abandon ship halfway through, leaving a rather amusing “plodin’ across the stars” there until next time), and a giant red immortality from the pen of Emily Dickinson. I was nervous going in – I cry at Pixar movies, and I didn’t want to look like even more of a baby in front of The Professor – but he sat beside me, feeding me maltesers and making me laugh so much the artist commented on how much she loved watching us as a couple.

Before I continue, I have to take a minor detour through crazyville. I hadn’t told many people I’d planned on getting this tattoo immediately, and so a little shock was understandable. But I think downright judgment and public disapproval is more than a little rude. I had a lot of love for the first picture to hit my Facebook wall, but intermingled were a few rather irritating comments in the vein of “whaaaaaaaat”, “WHY” and “dear lord”, followed by something that really made me want to punch somebody:

Crazy!! Why Em? WHY? You are a BEAUTIFUL woman. You really did NOT need this. I apologize if I seem to be old fashioned. Do you wonder what it will look like when you’re in your 50s,60s,70s? You gorgeous wonderful girl. I feel gutted. 

Let’s stop for a second and think about passing the same kind of comment on somebody who decided to go for a nose job or shave all their hair off. People make all sorts of big, appearance-related decisions every day, and they do it for very good reasons. They do it for art, for self esteem, and for expression. And nobody has the right to judge or condemn them for it simply because it’s not what they’d do themselves. I find it equally audacious when people tell me I need to “eat more” and stop being so skinny. Why is that form of judgment acceptable, when telling someone to put down the burgers is seen as cruel?

It’s been about five months since I got the first chunk done, and I think after a few more sittings in the new year, I’ll be done. I’ve fallen in love with it (and my amazing tattoo artist who puts on BBC radio, bundles me in blankets, gives us Christmas decorations and burns awesome TV shows for me) more and more every time I go, and I can’t wait for the finished product.

I suppose I should elaborate on my choice of text a little: The first excerpt across my shoulder is from Ulysses, and talks of the evanescence of the strength of youth, but also of the immortality of the strength of heart and will:

“Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

Around the corner, across the top of my arm, is an excerpt from Jack Kerouac’s On The Road:

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.”

Beneath, by Emily Dickinson, is one of my favourite quotes about love. Not an everyday kind of love, but a love that burns brighter than any dream imaginable… a love that transcends words, life, time and death:

“That I shall love always, I argue thee that love is life, and life hath immortality.”

The next phase was probably the most painful – the difference between being tattooed on the outside of the arm and being tattooed on the skin inside is indescribable!! This was the only time I cried, and unfortunately this was also the only time The Professor was unable to come and hold my hand. Not fun, and this one hurt for a good couple of days afterward, too, but thankfully the worst is over! This quote was about writing, and on how beautiful it is to watch the words “tangle with human emotions.”

After this, I had two terribly sciencey quotes added, along with a brilliant splattering of ink across much of what had already been done.

“Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known,” (Carl Sagan), and “ad astra per aspera” (through adversity to the stars… I believe at one point, this was used by NASA).

I have a few strands of text still to go, a couple of stray words and one full-size quote (below), and then, for now, I’ll be finished! The thing I love about this isn’t just the immortality of so many sentiments that mean so much to me, but also that as I grow and evolve, so too can this.

“As I see it, life is an effort to grip before they slip through one’s fingers and slide into oblivion, the startling, the ghastly, or the blindingly exquisite fish of the imagination before they whip away on the endless current and are lost forever in oblivion’s black ocean.”

Love, science, imagination, language, strength and stars now walk with me through life, and I couldn’t be happier with how it’s taking shape. Once this is done, I’m certain I’m going to finally finish the back piece.  After all, if the body is a temple, why not decorate the walls?