It is night

I can’t tell you how or where exactly I ran across this line, but it has stuck in my head:

It is night after a long day. What has been done has been done; what has not been done has not been done; let it be.

Which in turn led me to google it to find out where it’s from. I found this on Google Books:

I am moved by it, but not by the mention of a religious deity. I 98% don’t believe in the G-word (the 2% is when I’m swearing, so I don’t think that counts anyway). I want to use it as a prayer in the “earnest hope and wish” definition of the word, so I changed it.


It is night.

The night is for stillness; let us be still.

It is night after a long day. What has been done has been done; what has not been done has not been done; let it be.

The night is dark. Let all our fears of the darkness of the world and of our own lives rest.

The night is quiet. Let the quietness of peace enfold is,ll dear to us, and all who have no peace.

The night heralds the dawn. Let us look expectantly to a new day, new joys, new possibilities.

It was fun while it lasted, but it’s over.

It’s been four weeks since… since what? I’m not even sure what to call this. The language for this life event seems inadequate.

I wasn’t fired, I was assured that it wasn’t me, I was doing a good job. I know this. Not laid off either as I’m sure there is no intention to hire me back, Let go? Don’t like that phrase, as it implies they where holding on in the first place. It seems a bit passive anyway. Employment terminated is very cold and clinical. There are joke-y terms: the old heaved-ho, the bums rush, given my walking papers. I don’t feel like joking right now. I’ve been saying FUNemployment but really, there is nothing fun about it. The one I especially dislike is “lost my job”.

I didn’t lose my job. I know exactly where it is. Someone else is doing it.

There was a word the CEO kept saying like it was an explanation as he walked me from the brew house to the room where the HR person waited: restructuring. I don’t much like that word either, but I guess it works better than anything else.

I am the victim of Side Launch’s restructuring.

No, I don’t know what it means. No, I wasn’t the only one let go that day. Yes, they made the other brewer, the head brewer, a victim of restructuring too. Yes, they gave me a good severance package, a generous one. Yes, I was assured it’s just business. And no, I don’t know anymore than that. Yes, I have theories, but they are just that; you can draw your own conclusions.

And no, I am not ok in general. I am sometimes ok-ish though.

It’s a pretty paradoxical time actually. I’ve been good. I’ve been not so good. I’ve been OK. I’ve been terrible. I understand that it’s just business. I wondered what I did wrong (nothing). I’ve been resentful af. I’ve felt resigned. I felt hopeful. I’ve been scared I will not find another job in my field. I’m confident I will. I feel strong and capable. I’ve felt ike I’m going to shatter into a million pieces. I want to stay active and busy, finding things to occupy my time – a part time job, volunteering, knitting, visiting. I also want to crawl under the covers and come out a few days later blotchy and tear-stained. I hope that the powers that be at Side Launch know what they’re doing and the company will be successful for the sake of my friends who still work there. But there’s a small dark part of my heart where the hope is that they founder and fail. I am grateful for my time there and would not trade the experience of the last two years for anything. I also kinda wish I’d taken the other job that was offered to me at the time. I’ve had people I barely know reach out and offer my sympathy and support. I’ve had close friends I love go radio silent (it’s ok; I don’t know what to say to me either). I want to use this time to reach out and connect with people. But I can’t seem to pick up the phone. I want to write because I know I will feel better if I do. Alas, even five minutes of free writing is a struggle. It’s taken me five tries to finish this bloody blog post.

There are three things I have been most grateful for over the last four weeks. First and foremost is Keith. He’s not a demonstrative man and needs to be reminded to hold me when I’m anxious, but he loves me and supports me. He reassures me we’re going to be fine, and proves it by being the same as he always is. He’s not letting me wallow, and is good with making tea and tea cookies and self care suggestions.

Second: I am very grateful for my communities. My beer network has been full of hugs and well wishes, suggestions and job leads. My friends and neighbours have been wonderful with texts and coffee visits and casual dinners filled with candlelight and laughter. Everyone has shit going on in their life, and I appreciate any time spent on helping me deal with this big shit in mine atm.

Lastly, I am grateful to my past self. I’d hate to think what the last four weeks would have looked like if I hadn’t made a commitment last March to look after my mental health. I am not ashamed to say that I have seen a psychiatrist this year, and as a result take citalopram to dial back the panic, the anxiety and anger to liveable levels. I can feel the anxiety now, every waking moment, especially at night when the over-thinking makes sleep hard to find. But I can keep a lid on it.

And that’s not nothing, as a friend would say.


Let me preface this part by saying I’m not a huuuuge believer in the tarot. I think it gets it wrong as much as right, and some spend a lot of thought into shoehorning the wrong readings into their situation. But I like the symbolism of the cards, and feel that often you can pull something relevant for yourself, even if it’s only inspiration for some fiction free writing. I just got a deck I quite like, the Modern Witch Tarot, which is the old Rider-Waite deck with a female-centric modern twist.

I was shuffling and breaking in the new deck on the second or third sleepless night, thinking about my new employment status when this card flipped over:

Everything is Fine

It seemed so apropos for the moment, I had to laugh.

It’s now three+weeks past that, and I’ve been in a bit of daze. I’ve been productive, but also vague and distant and feeling not-quite-here. The anger has faded somewhat, and left a heaviness, a depression in it’s place. I don’t like this stage, and woke up feeling like it’s time to get active and work on getting past it. To all those who are now saying, don’t rush it, feel the feels, I say sshhhhh. I want to see the small delights again.

I pulled a card today for shits and giggles. Again, it seems to fit the moment.

Excelsior, my dad would say, onward and upward.

In a pocket

There were two prompts really… One, writer self-care, was to write in a place you don’t usually write, notice the difference in self and mood. I took myself to the river, to the place where the fishermen’s have trampled the grass and left me a place to sit, and the river runs a bit deeper and slower.

The other, the writing prompt, was about what do we carry with us, what is in out pockets or purse. The only thing i really carry in my pockets are work related (knife, phone, paper scraps, malt bag strings), so I’m using the far more interesting talismans I carry in my messenger bag.

The first is an oracle coin; hamsas, clouds and the word YES on one side, a winged skeleton and the word NO on the other. It’s big and weighty, like two toonies weighty. Substantial. I don’t use it often, but I like having it for when I want to put some randomness into my life.

The other is a tiny version of the Travellers Notebook, released for their 10th anniversary. I refused to buy a tin at $40, but bought two at $10. Once I put it together, I got caught in my what if I wreck it what if I run out of pages, it needs to be perfect loop of inaction. After staring at it for months, I hand wrote the Laughing Heart poem by Charles Bukowski in it. It’s my reminder to live my best badass life.

The Laughing Heart by Charles Bukowski

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.
— by Charles Bukowski

Fuck x 28

Fuck x 28

Fuck the inner critic.

Fuck cold feet., both literally and figuratively

Fuck always being either too hot or too cold

Fuck chairs that are never quite comfortable enough

Fuck joints that don’t bend that way anymore

Fuck flimsy keyboards

Fuck having to choose between paying off a credit card and paying for the full experience

Fuck finding my ideal career just before my body is tool old to do it anymore.

Fuck vegan cheese. No…just no.

Fuck anxiety.

Fuck the long tedious task of adjusting medications so i neither feel numb nor erratic af

Fuck writing af instead of just typing as fuck

Fuck weight gain, but only because it means i have to go and buy new clothes, not because i hate my body. I am finally at the point where i love every ploppy bit of it

Fuck missing the poppies at the old cottage

Fuck almost continuous farting

Fuck clenching my teeth

Fuck loss of nouns and vocabulary

Fuck not being connected when i realize i need to order a thesaurus

Fuck FOMO

Fuck the drone of seadoos

Fuck that distracting tickling on my legs when the breeze gusts that means I’ve missed the same spot a few times when shaving

Fuck still shaving

Seriously. Fuck seadoos

Fuck the need to capture a view rather than just experiencing it

Fuck being a 32 year old in a 57 year old body.

Fuck the niggling knowledge that any of this happiness can be taken from me at any moment.

Fuck being too chickenshit to reach out and apologize when you know you’ve been putting it off for years and time is running out

Fuck what if.

Andrew, goodbye

I saw The Specials the other night with Katherine and Michael.

It was a spectacular show, bringing back memories and leaving me energized and sore (I should have warmed up before dancing that much).

But that’s not what I want to write about. I want to write about the fact that Andrew was there.

Since the conversation with Sarah where she revealed that he had slept with Billie before we even got married (oh, how I hated seeing some of those weirdly shaped puzzle pieces finally fall into place), I had spent far too much time imagining what would happen in our inevitable chance encounter. Inevitable not because we run in the same circles, but because you just know that you will run into your ex at some point in your life. The world is always smaller than you think.

Should I glare, sneer, give him the cold shoulder? Maybe I should confront him, ask why cheat, why go through with the wedding, why gaslight me into thinking all our problems were my fault, why accuse me of cheating when it was him all along?

So many fucking whys.

I never really stopped and thought, do I really need to know?

I picked at the small unsealing scab for years. Rage and hurt and betrayal would bubble to the surface again and again. I knew this was not good for me, yet I could not stop.

I was not blameless. I know that. I but did not fuck someone else before getting married, and then still getting married.

And all my friends knew. Even my best friend at the time who stood up with me.

Bitch.

I digress.

I’m standing in the lobby of the Opera House, waiting for Katherine to buy a T-shirt, and look across the room to see him looking at me.

He knows it’s me. He’s got a deer-in-the-headlights long stare of recognition on his face.

I notice he’s embraced his baldness (finally) and shaved his head.

I notice he’s put on weight (so have I), gotten jowly (so have I), has grown a beard to try and mask it.

I notice what hair I can see has gone grey (so has mine).

I notice he is surrounded by friends, laughing and joking, not noticing how still he’s become. There’s a woman with silver-streaked dark hair who I assume is his Zoe, standing beside him and looking up at him with smiling affection.

Katherine interrupts my staring with a funny comment. I look away from Andrew and laugh loudly. When I look back, he’s gone.

OK, I’ll admit I laughed louder than I should have, loud enough to cut through the murmur of the crowd. I’m pretty sure he thinks I was laughing at him. I’ll admit i hope so. Unless he has changed dramatically in the last 22 years, there are few things he hates more than feeling like he is being laughed at.

It’s small and petty of me, but I am ok with him thinking that. I’m not perfect.

But really, I find I no longer care. My happiness with my life right now can be ok with his happiness.

I find I no longer want to know why. I no longer need to.

It’s in the past. And it can stay there.

Buh bye

Today I ended a 12-year toxic relationship. Fuck you, Facebook.

Fuck the targeted ads, the lack of privacy, the lack of care with my data, the oh-so-broad definition of the word friend, the FOMO and the bullshit.

And fuck the lack of funny cat pictures.

Pondering

The question is no longer do I leave Facebook or not.

The question is do I just say fuck it all or try and keep up with a few groups.

Dammit

I wish I was the kind of person who could cry freely, who could weep and wail and teat at her hair and clothing and let it all out. And once it was all out, it would be like after a summer thunderstorm, cleansed and fresh and ready to move on.

Instead, I suppress because I have the background that I have; repressed. I hold it in, push it down. A few tears might leak out, a few sobs or cries. But no more. It leaves me feeling worse, with a headache and scratchy dry eyes.

I really wish I could cry.