When I was in my last year of high school, which began when I was sixteen and ended when I was seventeen, I kept a journal rather religiously, in a black, hardcover notebook that says, “Do one thing each day that scares you – anonymous” on the cover. Among many angst-ridden rants, some of which I recopied and handed in as assignments for my English class even though they had nothing to do with the topic asked of us, but it didn’t matter because life was simpler then – my English teacher truly believed that I would become a writer one day, so she only gave me “10/10s” (an example of what I speak about in my “Open Letter to Balmoral Hall School for Girls”, to which I received this lovely comment after not opening my account for some time: “You sound like one of those girls that just hate everything. Perhaps when you graduated those things were not “important” due to the majority econmic class of the students, but I have to say when I graduated the system was different. No, I’m not one of the students that had parents making 6 figures a year, nor was I from old money. I took it upon myself to apply for scholarships and work part time as well. It appears as if you expected things to be handed to you, and I apologize if that’s inaccurate, but you seem to be using BH as a scapegoat for your shortcomings in life. The school has changed in the years since you left, and though there are still things that piss me off about it I don’t believe the things you’ve said to be accurate.” Cool. Apparently the school is still edu-ma-cating young women oh so well, as I have lost friends over my disdain for those who are fed with silver spoons and lack the ability to relate with anyone who has not been. Indeed, I began working as soon as I was legally able to do so, and worked thirty hours per week and more if I could get my managers to slot me for extra shifts, during Grades 11 and 12. I was the only student in my graduating class with a job, and I got home around midnight each evening I worked as Chapter’s was open until 11pm back then. My family is far from well-off, and I have also “taken it upon myself” to apply for every scholarship I’ve ever been aware of and eligible for. As for “being one of those girls that just hate everything”, I challenge you, Roxanne, to describe what you mean by this typification. There are many things in this world deserving of hatred, such as genocide, socioeconomic structures that leave children in “wealthy” countries hungry and their counterparts in “poor” nations starved to death, prisons where men and women are locked in cages if they are caught doing the things that such structures lead people to do outside the law, and institutionalized racism. However, it is my love for the world that really kills me. I am interested, however, in your analysis of a “subculture” of sorts that I, myself, am not aware of. Perhaps they are particular to your generation?) anyway, the journal houses various aphorisms of sorts that came to my young mind during the course of the year, some quite trite and rather lame like one I made out of magnetic letters on the inside of my locker: “had a mind, lost it, had a dream, forgot it”. Some were a little more profound, such as “the one who never loses forgets that it’s a game”. Then there was one that has always haunted me, because I’ve believed it was about going so many places, but never has been: “Someday soon I’ll board a ship, these memories I’ll bring. Slowly, I’ll let go my grip, they never meant a thing.” Tomorrow my ship is finally coming. My aunt Ruth, ex-communicated by her religious family for, not only, like my dad, not being religious, but also for being a “manic depressive”, incredibly smart, creative, et al., called me last week for the first time since I was ten years old. I believe this was truly (a very areligious, but a gift from the Universe, and from my mother wherever she sat watching me in its fabric when she decided it was time, that this card must be played) a miracle. The second thing she said was, “Do you want to come stay with me for a while?” I said yes, knowing that I am walking a tightrope of mental unquiet, and the only safety net in place is the god awful ward and the handfuls of new brain-damaging pills I would be fed there. She lives a short plane ride away, in the interior of British Columbia. Yes, we all end up farthest west.
Somehow I made it through today.
I think for a year I’ve been distracted from a great depression and it has finally caught up with me, now that my pain has left, my father’s gone home, and soon leaves will begin falling. I remember when my mom cried, telling me about seeing the falling leaves and realizing that it would be her last autumn. I do not think I could get through this one alone, nor could I return to share space with my sister and stepmother – they both hate me right now – in Winnipeg. I will make it through the night. Last night I wrote this:
It is a difficult thing to be a kind woman. Not only is one disappointed, stabbed in the back, lied to, and laughed at, but one is taken advantage of. Yes, each person I have met this summer – let’s say there have been fifteen, give or take a few, that I have conversed with for several hours and who have impressed upon me, either implicitly or explicitly, that we are to be friends – has proven not interested, at least not primarily, in my company, but rather to be interested in some kind of gain for them. These benefits of knowing me may be grouped into to basic categories: financial and sexual. Other “rewards”, such as social bragging rites can be regarded as secondary to these basic goals of spending time with me – receiving monetary assistance, sexual pleasure, or in some cases, both. I do not remember when I lost my clothes, but I am naked – my kindness is exposed to each person that walks past me, and the handful of those I must interact with. I cannot go outside any longer without being the subject of comments that I do not have the strength to challenge. A man speaks loudly about my breasts as I approach my pharmacy – I have to come here each day, dressed or not. Where is the woman that would have used the filth spouting from this pig, hair slicked back with so much grease that the sun bounces and blinds as I turn my eyes his way, to make a statement about the things that are wrong with humankind, a loud one, ending with his Starbucks coffee being flung at his stupid, spit-sticky grin? Who is this woman that grins nervously, validating the lewd swine, giving him the smidge of acceptance he needs to bother the next young woman that walks by? Aside from this four block jaunt I lay still all day, inside on the brightest days of the summer. The sun would feel good on my skin, would be healing, but I am punishing this being for being disappointed, stabbed in the back, lied to, laughed at, and taken advantage of. I starve her. I do not wash her. I do not let her read or watch movies or make things. I do not let her water her garden and the plants turn to dust and crumble. I want her to think about what she’s allowed herself to take in order to give like a child sent to her room, but she doesn’t even have the strength to form thoughts of enduring meaning. This makes me a feel a little sorry for her, so I let her play with the cat and the cat lies on her chest, covering as much of her as a furry little body can.
Knowing that
When I say
Sanity
And I say,
Regain
It’s something
that no one else
Would wish
To Attain
A woman who is not afraid
To walk the streets, at night, alone
To haunt the streets, at night, alone
Is better off left to her own devices
The Universe, itself, arranged it
Should she be clever enough to read the signs
Orphan girl
Strings Cut
By three blind women on mama’s side
By the choices of mortal women on daddy’s side
Leave her be,
see how far she manages to run
How low she manages to sin
Before the dust rises to meet her.
Yes, my ship is finally coming to take me away for a while. It could be no other way. Europe will have to wait.
