not broken; a poem

i am not broken
i am not broken
i am not broken
 i am not broken
i am not broken
i am not broken
i am not bronen
i am not bkoken
i am not broken
i am not  broekn
i am not broek n
i am not btoken
i am not broken
i am not brroken
i am not brtoken
i am not broken
i am not btoken
i am not broken
i am not btroken
i am not broken
i am not broken



maybe if i tell myself that enough
i;ll believe it
but
i am not broken
i am not broken i am not broken
i am
not broken
i am not broken
i am not beoken
 i am not broken




maybe if i tell mysel that enough
i[ll believe that
i am not broken
i am not broekn
i am whole
i am whole
i am whole
i am good
i am good
i dont need fixed
i am good
i dont need fixed
i am enough
i am not broken
i am good
maybe if i tell myself that enough
i'll believe that
bit
bit
bit
but
maybe i am
whole?

The BoJack Horseman Show

It's been awhile since I've posted anything, as I'm sure you've noticed. I've been working on a new project and it has been taking most of my focus. However, Netflix dropped season 4 of the outstanding BoJack Horseman last week, so I thought I would talk about it. Honestly, this whole post was birthed from the idea for a tweet, but the show deserves more than just a moderately clever tweet. There have been many articles and reviews written about BoJack, and mine will probably skew fairly close to the rest of them. According to Rotten Tomatoes, the last 3 seasons of Bojack have averaged a 98% rating, and it honestly deserves it. The show is, ostensibly, about an anthropomorphic horse trying to revitalize his acting career in a Hollywood, sorry--Hollywoo full of other anthropomorphic animals and humans. In reality, the show is an unflinching look at the affects of mental illness, drug use, and the societal state of North America. The tweet that sparked this post was about this, something along the lines of: "Five years ago, I would've never believe that the most accurate portrayal of  depression on TV came from an animated horse."

We live in a time where adult focused cartoons allow themselves to focus on dark topics instead of just dick jokes. A few years ago all the adult focused cartoons were in the same vein of Family Guy--crass and shallow. Now we have shows like BoJack Horseman, Archer, and, yeah, Rick and Morty. I would like to go on permanent record to say that BoJack is, by far, the best written and acted of all of those. I could be biased by the fact that I relate more to the characters in BoJack than the others, but I don't care. The writers and cast of the show aren't afraid to show the deep flaws that all the characters have: BoJack is clinically depressed, narcissistic, and an alcoholic, Princess Caroline is so afraid of failure that she pushes everyone away at the slightest hint that she might screw up and has always put her job before everything, Mr Peanut Butter has never had to work for anything but has a crippling need for people to like him, Diane is neurotic and hates when people do things for her--even when they're just trying to be nice, and Todd has no path in life and doesn't know who he is so he tries to be everyone. And those are just the main characters, never mind the lives of the supporting cast (like BoJack's mother, who's past is a major part of season 4 and is incredibly distressing).

The thing that BoJack gets so right about mental illness is that it never really goes away: it's always there, just waiting to make a comeback. Over the course of season 2 and 3, Bojack starts to redeem himself in his eyes. He gets to make the movie that he has always wanted, and he's a big star again. He even starts to like himself, just a little. Then, it goes away. He starts to hate himself again, and he doesn't know why. He has everything that he has ever wanted, and he has a feeling of fulfillment, yet it's not enough. And because BoJack doesn't handle his illness in a healthy way, things go from bad to worse. He puts all of his happiness on getting an Oscar nomination, and when that doesn't happen, he goes on a major, months long drug bender with a former co-star who ends up dying in his arms in some shitty hotel room. Following that, he decides that he doesn't deserve to live anymore. He takes off in his car, and when he's all alone, he floors it and takes his hands off the wheel. But before he crashes, he sees some horses running through the desert, and for a second, he sees what life could be and he stops.

In less depressing praise for the show, it also has the single greatest representation of an asexual character on television: Todd. At the end of season 3, Todd begins to realize that he's not straight, and in a heartbreaking moment he says: "maybe I'm nothing," which is something many aces could relate to. And, during season 4, Todd comes to fully embrace and accepts his asexuality, and even comes out about it to BoJack, who is supportive of Todd. The show even showcased an Ace Meet Up and had Todd hang out with fellow aces. In a television climate where we barely have any queer rep, let alone asexual rep, BoJack Horseman has given an asexual main character, and several ace secondary characters.

I love this show. It has some of the best puns on TV, and deals with important issues in a way that doesn't try to hide the dark side of humanity. Seriously, I cannot overstate how amazing, and important this show is. Which is a weird thing to say about a show about a talking horse and animal pals, but here we are. In 2017, the most human show of all barely has any human characters. Which is probably what makes it watchable.

I'm just gonna throw in some more gifs that I had considered using now.

No clever title, just read this

This is my 200th blog post on here. I had a short story I was working on to commemorate this august occasion, but I've decided to post that later. Due to the escalating circumstances in North America, not just the States, I have decided to use my 200th blog post to issue a simple statement: Fuck Nazis.
     
The fact that the question of whether Nazis are bad or not has come up in 2017 is embarrassing and terrifying. Unequivocally, yes; Nazis are bad. They are evil. If you haven't been keeping abreast of the news, a group calling themselves the alt-right have become more and more outspoken since Trump's inauguration. To be crystal clear: the alt-right are Nazis. They are blood and race purists who want to see an all white America. This past weekend they marched in an American city shouting Nazi slogans and giving Nazi salutes. If that was still too subtle for people, they were also carrying Swastika flags and confederate flags. They came out at night carrying torches. They shouted "white lives matter", "hail victory" (which is just sieg heil in English), in one of the videos you could even hear people shouting "hail Trump".

Then they got violent.

A group of these neo-nazis were recorded on video beating a man with planks of wood, among other things. Another man, a member of the alt-right group Vanguard America, drove his car through a crowd of counter-protesters, killing Heather Heyer, 32, and injuring 19 others. He then fled the scene. He has since been arrested and is currently charged with second degree murder. Vanguard America is a hate group. Their creed comes from the Nazis. Their slogans come from the Nazis. They are Nazis. A Nazi killed an innocent woman on American soil last weekend. There is no other way of putting that without complicating the issue. The simple truth is this: A Nazi killed a woman in the United States of America, in the year 2017.

Almost exactly 72 years after the end of World War II, a Nazi has killed someone in North America. My grandfather served in the War, and fought against the Nazis. A part of me is glad that he isn't here to see what has become of the countries he fought for. I miss him every single day, but I am glad he doesn't have to see this.

This is a situation where there is no neutral ground. Keeping silent only gives the Nazis a louder voice. Keeping silent, especially as a white person, is saying that you don't want to give up your white privilege, and that you're okay with the inequality. To say plainly: keeping silent means that you'd rather have Nazis than some inconvenience; it means you're okay with Nazis. This is a situation where there is a right side, and there is a wrong side. I hope I don't have to tell you which is which, but the side that's racist? That's the wrong side. I know I have a lot of friends who like to stay out of politics, but this has gone passed mere politics! Human lives are on the line. You can't stay on the fence.

Here in Canada, Nazi marches are currently planned for Toronto and Vancouver. I ask you to go out and show those Nazi scum that you will not be pushed over. Stand up for your neighbours. Stand up for Canada, and show those fucking Nazis why they lost the last time they reared their fugly heads.

If my childhood hero Indiana Jones taught me anything, it's that Nazis are bad, and defeating them is good.

I honestly can't believe that this is a serious issue right now. It shouldn't be! We should know that Nazis are bad! And no, this isn't an attack on free speech! Free speech allows for the sharing of ideas and conversation, it does not allow for the spread of hate.

Fuck Nazis.

Omar Khadr and the current state of Canada

I've stayed out of politics for a while. It was honestly just too much, and I wanted to focus on myself for a while. However with the Canadian Government giving Omar Khadr a 10.5 million dollar settlement, I can't keep quiet anymore. I am disgusted with a lot surrounding this. Mainly how many right leaning people are reacting. There's a lot of hate and a lot of misinformation and misunderstandings. For those of you who don't know, Omar Khadr is a Canadian citizen whose father was associated with Al-Qaeda. He spent most of his childhood going back and forth between Canada and Pakistan. When he was 15, he was at the sight of a firefight between American forces and Taliban. It was believed that he was involved in the firefight and that he was directly responsible for killing an American soldier. There is no definitive proof that this happened--only that he was there, got wounded by shrapnel, and was shot in the back twice by American troops. He was treated for his injuries and taken to Guantanamo Bay. He was held there for ten years. During that time he was "questioned" (we all know how they questioned people there), and was told that if he confessed he would be allowed to serve his sentence in Canada. He pleaded guilty under duress. Later, the Supreme Court of Canada would rule that Omar's treatment in Guantanamo was a severe violation of his basic human rights. In 2012, he was brought back to Canada, where he served another three years in prison until he was released on bail. At that time, the ruling Conservative Party issued an appeal to the Supreme Court to revoke his bail. It was not until 2016, that the ruling Liberal Party dropped the appeal. With the fact that Omar was 15, and that his confession was obtained through immoral methods, the Liberal Party of Canada issued an apology, and gave a settlement of $10.5 million. It should be noted that this amount is half of what he had been after in his civil suit against the Canadian government.

Do I agree with Prime Minister Trudeau in this regard? Yes. Wholeheartedly. He was a kid, and he was tortured by both Canadian officials and American ones. There is video of one of his interrogations, and Guantanamo Bay officials have admitted to using sleep deprivation on him. Omar Khadr went through hell. And since his release on bail, he has been labelled a terrorist by the people of his country. Because Canada is his country. He was born here. He is as Canadian as I am. I for one stand with him. I stand with my Prime Minister. And I will definitely stand against the bullies who are trying to destroy this beautiful country.

I look around and I see all these people (white people, of course) getting upset at the strides the Liberal Government is making towards equality. I see all these people getting upset at the push towards a greener Canada. I see all these people getting upset at the push towards sustainability. And I don't get it. Do you not want equality? Are you all quietly racist and comfortable in your privilege? Do you want to destroy the environment? Do you not want future generations to have a good life? Are you that fucking selfish? The ignorance that flows from these people's mouths is astounding. Just open your eyes and put aside your selfishness for one second! Look at the suffering of those around you! Look passed your white walls and white communities and see the real world.

I have family that want the Conservative party to come back to power. The same party that tried to reverse same-sex marriage. The same party that got us involved in conflicts we didn't need to be a part of. The same party that lead to a financial crisis. The same party that wanted Canadians to report Muslims to the police. The same party that currently wants to emulate the Trump administration and run a government based off of fear. Right now our country is taking in the hurt and the disenfranchised, and the Conservatives want that to stop. They want to bring in Canada first policies. Policies that go against everything that it means to be Canadian. I remember what our country stands for, and I am proud of our current government for everything that it is doing to make Canada into the country the rest of the world thinks we are.

I believe in Canada. This loving and accepting Canada. Fuck those who want a whites first Canada. That's not us.

Disjointed masks

Being a writer is hard when you're scared to write. I mean, it's hard for a lot of reasons, but when you're too scared to even touch a keyboard, it's really hard. That's where I'm at right now. Most of me feels like I'm in a good place mentally, but whenever I go to write, I freeze. Maybe I'm not in as good of a place as I thought. Mostly I feel okay, but there have been a few moments where I've definitely been not okay.

(I've been staring at this for a good ten minutes now, with no clue of how to continue, and, really, no want to do so)

Fuck, maybe I'm not meant to do what I want to do. Maybe I'm not meant to be a writer. Maybe I'm just meant to be a failure, forever fucking up and hurting the ones I care about. Maybe I'm not meant to be me, even though I have no idea who that person could be. Fuck.

Maybe I'm just lost inside my own headspace. That's never a good place for me to visit alone; it always breaks me. Maybe it stems from always being told that I wasn't good enough. Always it would be: "That person did better than you. Why can't you do better?" "You're so lazy." "What's your problem?" "Why can't you be like them?". Because I'm not them. I'm barely me. Never good enough. I'm never good enough. To this day, I fight (and lose to) the demons inside of me, itching to feel some modicum of self-worth. Every time that I lose, I feel more and more worthless. Slowly, that feeling of worthlessness came to be my defining feature. I'm never good enough. Even in my own mind, I'm never good enough. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will crush my soul and break my spirit.

The broken person, especially the broken man, has become romanticized in our culture. The dark, brooding guy sitting in the corner nursing a drink. The sullen and silent man. Being 'broken' isn't something romantic. Trust me, it is super hard being romantic while you're second guessing every decision you've ever made, and low-key hating yourself for even trying to make a connection with another human. Hell, I second guess myself when I'm just talking to a friend about the fricking weather. Single file, people of all genders, and please stay calm while waiting your turn. I promise, I have enough insecurities and tears for all of you.

This is really disjointed. And this transitions? Heckin' terrible.

Who am I? They say that a person who has struggled with depression their entire lives (from childhood to present) can struggle with self-identity forever. It's hard to know who one is, when one changes on a regular basis. I wrote a poem once about all the masks I've worn, and how I have lost my true face in the dreck left behind. Maybe I threw that mask, my true face, out. Maybe I haven't gotten to it. Maybe I've never had it. Or maybe, and this is the scary one, maybe this mess of a fucked up human is my true face. How horrible would that be? I don't like this person very much. They're kinda terrible at...everything.

Well, this was much more depressing than I had planned. Guess that's what happens when you're scared to write. You start spouting truths that you don't wanna deal with.

I need a drink

Of water. It's super hot out.  

Being proud

June is nearly over, and with that Pride month comes to an end. I've only written one thing on it so far, and there are various reasons for that which I won't really get into. Evan Edinger recently released a video about Pride month talking about how he isn't proud of his sexuality because it isn't something that he's accomplished, much like how he isn't proud of his height. And while I understand what he's trying to say and do, I kinda disagree. People in the queer community are often the targets of hate and discrimination, much like all minorities, and we must stand up in the face of that hate. And the easiest way to stand up to hate, is to be proud of who you are. So, to Evan, I say this: we need to be proud of who we are, even if we're being proud of something we were born with.

There are a lot of times that I'm scared of being myself, but Pride always gives me a relatively safe space to be myself. I am proud of who I am, but life is a continuous journey of self-discovery and self-acceptance, and I haven't fully accepted all that I am yet. As a non-binary person, I'm not 100% certain how I want to express that, so it's not something that I showcase in my daily life, and possibly it's not something that those close to me even remember or think about. I know I've asked on my twitter for people to use gender neutral pronouns when referencing me, but I have no way of knowing if anyone actually does. It's not like I hear them talking about me to other people, so unless people outright tell me, I have no clue and I'm too 'scared' to ask. By scared, I just mean that I don't want to annoy people by asking them if they're using my preferred pronouns. Which is fucked up. It's my gender, I should be comfortable with asking people to use my pronouns, unless subconsciously I'm not comfortable with my own gender yet. But that's a whole other story for another day.

Pride is a time to be proud of who we are as the queer community. To be proud of everything that we have accomplished, and everything we have survived. It is my personal belief that we, as members of the queer community, should be proud of our sexualities and genders. We have to be, so that future generations can look at us, see all that we've overcame, and see that we can still smile.

Remember, none of us are ever alone. We are a community. We are a family. And we are proud.

happy places

go to your happy place

calm down

focus on the good

words used to--what?

happy places are happy thoughts

happy dreams and images

lies we perpetuate to give empty guidance 

empty rooms filled with empty li--promises

if i had a happy place wouldn't i stay?

things without meaning said with meaning 

still things without meaning

lost in thought

lost in translation

lost in asinine people

where once happy places may stood

now barren thoughts collide 

happy places don't exist

only happy thoughts

happy memories

happy people

going to a falsehood doesn't fix

it only delays 

happy places don't exist

those that make us happy do

to them should we go

not to lies, but to the eyes

that give us meaning and hope

let them fill us up

let them give us life

let them let us live again. 

nightmares

Nightmares. Dark dreams that elevate our base fears into things we don't want to imagine. Friends and family leaving, or worse. Being left totally alone. Failing. Most times the worst nightmares don't involve ghosts or monsters, instead they strip everything we have away. They leave us bare and alone with our personal demons. We can learn from our nightmares, but who would want to focus in on something so dark? Most of my nightmares involve my closest friends leaving me. In the dreams, they see my true face and they leave, and I am left alone with myself. I suppose that sounds terribly sad that my darkest nightmares involve me being left with myself, and not something more graphic and violent. I relate too much with characters that hate themselves, from the Doctor to Jeff Winger, I see myself in those people. From the extremes they go to to never be alone, to the deep, soul-searching questions they are constantly asking themselves and those around them.

The Doctor is constantly told by his companions to not be alone because they know he'll lose himself if that happens. A poignant moment from one of Peter Capaldi's first episodes had him asking Clara, with emotion soaking through his words, if he was a good man. Jeff Winger, from Community, when meeting his birth father, breaks down and admits that he's always on his phone just so he doesn't have to look his friends in the eyes. He doesn't want his friends to see how broken he is on the inside. And these are the characters I relate to. Often when I tell people that I relate to the Doctor, people assume I have a hero complex, and sometimes I wish that were true. Instead, I relate to the Doctor because we have the same nightmares: being alone and having only ourselves for company.

Nightmares are honest once you dig into them. Maybe that's what's scariest about them. We never like to admit our fears to anyone, let alone to ourselves. That's why we tell people we're scared of spiders or mice. We aren't truly scared of spiders or mice, we might not like being around them, but those aren't the things that keep us awake at night. I keep myself awake at night. Thoughts continuously swirling around my mind, thoughts that I think to share but am stopped by the fear of people leaving me. I am constantly surprised that my friends don't leave me, especially during a deep depression. I barely want to spend time with myself, why would anyone else want to spend time with me? Obviously, people do want to spend time with me; crazy people, but people nonetheless.

Death is also a common nightmare; to clarify, the death of someone close. Many times, when I awake drenched by sweat in the middle of the night, it is because of a nightmare like this. The other nightmares don't wake me up--they mirror my waking thoughts too much for that. However, these nightmares jolt me into consciousness, and cause me to scramble for my phone so that I can remind myself that it was just a nightmare. Falling back to sleep after these is always hard. They aren't dreams that one wants to return to.

I wish to never have a nightmare again. I wish to be confident that I will sleep peacefully for the rest of my life, but that's not how life works. Nightmares are honest, and they can teach us. But they fucking suck. As I write this, I am haunted by the specters of nightmares past. Fleeting images of terrible things, feelings of terror and loss and heartbreak. Of being alone. Tears forming in the corners of my eyes as I try to not remember. A deep weight on my chest, pressing the air out of my lungs.

Nightmares show us the deepest and darkest corners of our souls. Places we wish to never see. Things we wish to forget. Perhaps when we learn to accept all of ourselves, we will no longer have nightmares.

Maybe. 

#NationalBestFriendsDay

Every day is hashtag national something day, which makes it impossible to celebrate all of them, but I choose to celebrate this one. A best friend is something special. During the course of one's life, one may have several best friends, a group of best friends, or only one best friend, but each are equally important. Myself, I've had numerous people that I have considered to be my best friend. Each of these individuals brought something to the table, and each helped me learn something about myself, or helped me through a dark period. Yet none of them were truly my best friend. There was still something missing from my life. Many of those people are no longer in my life at all, and, sad to say, I do not miss their presence. Which will be super awkward if any of them are reading this blog...

But all of that changed when I met you, Beth. Through the course of the short time we've known each other, you've filled that part of my soul that was missing, to be really dramatic. As the super inquisitive couple we sat with at a wedding reception wanted to know, we met through a mutual friend. We gamed online together, and exchanged snaps back forth, and even stayed up until 5 am on xbox just talking. It was probably then that we passed from being friends to being best friends, and perhaps that's when you figured it out, but it took me a while longer, I'm sad to say. It wasn't until that night that you said aloud the words "you're my best friend" that everything clicked for me. I am, as you regularly tell me, a dumbass, after all. But, as you said those fateful words, a rush of emotions and realizations flooded through me: all this time, from the moment we first met, you had been my best and dearest friend. The fact that I got happy just hearing your voice, that seeing you made me smile, and that being with you made me forget all of my problems made sense! I know that I am much more sappy than you, and slightly (hah) more emotional, and to be honest I forget where I was going with this sentence.

We may not have the most conventional friendship, and a lot of the people around us may think we're dating, but we know exactly what we are, and it makes us happy. And that's what matters. We have a world to explore together, lives to share, and every morning I wake up thankful for having met you. God, this is sappy, even for me (he says, knowing no one will believe that).

To everyone reading this, be thankful for your best friends every day. Tell them that you love them, because if you don't actually love them, are they really your best friend? 

A thought on Pride month

It's the seventh day of Pride month, and this is the first time I've mentioned it anywhere. It's not that I'm not proud, and I am planning on participating in it, I just haven't been in the right headspace. Every year during Pride month asexuality is seemingly disregarded by... well, everyone. And that gets so tiring. So many people still believe that the A stands for allies, and so many more don't think asexuality is even real. We, as aces, are constantly being told we're broken, or that we haven't met the right person yet. An asexual friend of mine was just dumped because she didn't want to have sex as often as her partner thought she should, and I wish that that was a rare occurrence, but it is so common. Instead of celebrating asexuality, the month of June usually just highlights the ignorance around it. 

Pride month is supposed to be about people of all genders and sexualities, but it has basically been co-opted by gay men. When you see images celebrating pride, they're happy gay couples or liberated gay men. Occasionally there will be a picture of a lesbian, but mostly pride is for gay men. I mean, the rest of society is for straight men, so why shouldn't pride be for the gay men? 

Obvious snark aside, many people in the queer community feel this way, and it's always a discussion this time of year. Last year, a middle-aged gay man wrote an article where he said all sexualities should just use the term "gay" because it would be easier for him. Listen buddy, that's not how any of this works, okay? I'm not gay, I'm asexual. Do I sometimes like people of my own gender? Sure, but I also like people of other genders, but never in a sexual way. Ergo, I am not gay. Guess I can't use that term. I'm asexual, and I'm sick of the queer community trying to erase me. It's already hard enough to accept being asexual in our hyper-sexual society without the rest of the queer community denying us. 

The pride events I usually go to are in the largest city in my province. A city of roughly 260 000. The first pride I went to there had zero asexual representation. The following year had several asexual people march in the parade, and the year after had a few more. It felt really good to see that representation grow. It felt like validation. Like I wasn't alone, and like I wasn't broken. The sad truth is that I still feel broken at times. I feel like I'm not enough, and that I never will be. I watch romantic movies or tv shows and every romance portrayed involves sex, and sexual attraction. Growing up seeing that, it's easy to understand why so many aces feel broken. Even most queer spaces have an emphasis on sexual relationships (bars and clubs), leaving many aces with nowhere to feel safe. No one's opened up a queer coffee shop (although they should, I would spend all my money there) for people to just hang out at, but every good size city has at least one gay bar. Again, because gay men are the most important part of the queer community. Gotta make sure they're happy, fuck everybody else (even the ones that don't like fucking). 

I want to celebrate Pride month. I want to be able to go to pride events and see asexual people both represented and accepted. I want that every day, but it especially hurts during pride. I'm asexual, and I'm proud of that. Always will be. No matter what. 

loss and lost

staring at this blank page
its arrogance taunting me and mocking me
words flitting and fleeting
mind grasping at nothing
not even air
suffocating in the inexplicable drought
drowning in the insurmountable fears
why
why am i like this
why cant i write
why cant i breathe
the blankness drilling in
my soul
lost
dead
gone
why
the taunting and mocking driving me to the edge
lost causes
lost coasts
forever going
never arriving
circles upon circles circling in
crushing me in my own
why
what am i
who am i
crushed by the thoughts
crushed by the lies
crushed by own hubris
hubris that shouldnt be
why
lines fill up the page
lines filled up with lies
lines lying to hide the lies within the lines
why
why
why
why
god why
when will i become i
when will i like i
when will the pain stop
the pain stopped for a moment
a brief time in my existence
but it came back
always coming back
the pain never ceasing
but for moments
why
faltering strength
failing mind
creativity slowing dying
a former husk
a one time being
now
gone
why
fuck
why do the words hurt
why do the words not come
why do the words break
me
why do the words break me
why do the words always break me
why do the words break me
why does life hurt
why doe the sun not shine through
darkness enveloping
slowly choking out all vestiges of what was
the words like blood ever flowing wrong
the mind clotting blocking the words
the veins closed
why
where once was life
now is darkness
where once words sprang
now words die
the blankness taunting me and mocking me
i cant
i cant
i cant
cant what
live
i can
just
barely wanting to hold on
the weight pulling down
the depths calling up
eyes closing
grip relaxing
sliding down
you
you save me
you pull me out
you force me to live
to breathe
to be
but the blankness is still there
always taunting and mocking
never ceasing
never relenting
the pain is still there
never ceasing
never relenting
but you
you
you make it worth it
you make it bearable
and for that
i
i live. 

not the hero

A few weeks ago a friend of mine told me that while they were getting a tattoo, they and their artist exchanged racist jokes about First Nations people. My friend, like myself, is white. When they told me this I was at a pretty low spot and I just wanted to talk to someone about my issues, so I was selfish and I didn't say anything. I let the racism slide, because I didn't want to deal with it, and to be blunt, it had nothing to do with me. I consider myself to be an activist regarding queer issues, and most other things, but that night I was tired, so I didn't do a damn thing.
When I told a mutual friend about that night, they got very upset with me for not saying anything. I made a lot of excuses for as to why I didn't say anything, but they all basically boiled down to: "I was tired and selfish." The mutual friend is First Nations and queer, they deal with way more than I do every single day. Every day is fight for them regarding every aspect of their being. For me? If I get too tired to fight, I can just stop and not worry because I look like a straight white male. And that night, I acted like one. I allowed my white privilege to take over my morals, simply because I was selfish.
And then I made excuses for my behaviour. Everyday that I don't get attacked for my race shows my privilege, and I grew complacent. I stopped caring about all the fights, and only focused on the ones that affect me. But that's not how activism works. I can't fight for equality and acceptance if I'm not fighting for true equality and acceptance for all. I can't fight for my equality if I'm leaving others behind.
I made a mistake that night, willfully, and through that I damaged a friendship that I cherish. On top of all of that, I never even told the person what was bothering me, so it was all for literally nothing.
Everyday is a fight for someone, so everyday I should be fighting.
As a white person, I must do better.
As a queer person, I must do better.
As a friend, I must do better.
Nothing I do can change the fact that I didn't say anything that night. All I can do is make sure that it does not happen again. 

Life, we must not regret

Life, we must not regret,
for it is all we have
with each word
with each moment
and every action
we create our path.
With every choice
                   right or wrong
we create our future
our paths are our own
no one else gets to make them
At times, we share our path
with people we care about
and others
who we think care
                       but don't
oft-times we walk alone
treasured are those times
we walk in company
but our paths are our own
and our lives to make
Life, we must not regret,
for it is all we have. 

The hardest part

                The hardest part of being a writer is when the words don’t come. When the hands can’t hold the pencil, and the fingers can’t type. When the mind is too full to focus on words, and you just want to shut down. When you just want to sleep. The hardest part of being a writer is the writing. The writing kills you. It bleeds your soul out onto the page for the entire universe to see, and then it leaves you. Empty.

                The hardest part of being a writer is when you don’t want to be a writer. When you just want to run away from your thoughts and cares and worries. When the whole entire world is arrayed against you, telling you it can’t be done. The hardest part of being a writer is being a writer. Being a writer leaves you lonely, with naught but your thoughts for company. Thoughts that can kill you. Thoughts that can rebirth you.

                The hardest part of being a writer is accepting a blank page as it is. Some days a blank page is what you need. Sometimes a blank page is not defeat. Sometimes it’s a respite. The hardest part of being a writer is seeing the point of it all. When the weight of the world is crushing you down, and you just need a break from it all.

                The hardest part of being a writer is carrying on. And yet, carrying on is all we can do. Sometimes, the hardest part of being a writer is simply being.  

broken help

write something cheerful
for it will make cheerful you who are not
smile until the frown is forgot
ignore the pain -- it won't last
it's just a state of mind
so change your mind -- change your mood
get some more sleep -- you're just tired
you need some fresh air
have a cup of tea
have a drink
have a smoke
Fuck. Off.
Be quiet
I hear enough voice
calling me
demanding me
commanding me
you don't know
you don't understand
these lies you parade as truths demean
                                                 devalue
they add to the struggle
the hindering help you thoughtlessly provide
broken you maim me
broken I am
              broken by the faith I put in you
              broken by the trust I placed in you
              broken by your help
all these lies clambering to help
buried by advice
suffocated by help
the depression wasn't enough to break me
                     maybe your "help" is

The conflication of emotions

Some new poetry for you to sink your eyeballs and mind into. You're welcome for that image! 

1.

Attempting to write again

much like trying to live again

to get the lead flowing

to get the heart pumping

pressure on the page

pressure on the chest

Attempting to write again

trying to live again

are the same things

                                yet different

to write again

to live again

one simply needs

                                                purpose

                

                and a reason

                and a want

maybe you’re my purposereasonwant

maybe you’re not

                but

                     for now

                                               

                                you’re enough for me

               

                                                                to write again.

2.

The pencil, long since fallen

stares sullenly silent

condemning its ultimate betrayer

the writer whose hands forgot it

and whose mind rejected it

rejection stings

                                even a pencil feels pain.

3.

Jumbled thoughts

conflicting emtions

shit. write plainly.

Happiness & dread comingling

in a confusing dance

Joy & fear sparring in the back

fighting for dominance.

worry for one thing

hope for another

neither giving way

neither gaining

locked in a bitter embrace

when time conspired to give joy

                                                it gives the other also

time gives & takes

                                often at the same… 

transitions

Life, much like writing, is simply a series of transitions. We move from situation to situation in the ever-changing narrative that is our life. In writing, the transitions are tailored to the narrative and make sense, unfortunately, life does not follow these rules and sometimes our literal transitions can be abrupt, confusing, and messy. 

If my life followed the rules of a good story, and if all the transitions in it had made narrative sense, I would be in a much different place than I am today. Hell, if life made sense, I would have never been born in the first place. It makes no narrative sense that my parents met, yet they did.

I was born in the port city of Nanaimo, birthplace of the Nanaimo Bar, on a cold winter’s morn. I happened to be an emergency caesarian, and was immediately placed in a little glass box so that I could live. Not the most auspicious start to one’s life.

My best friend was the girl next door. If this were Hollywood, we’d be married. Instead, we live 2000 km apart and rarely speak. Dad was a social worker who worked with street kids and gang members. When I was seven we moved to Saskatchewan so he could be a mechanic and fix tractors.

Ever since that day I have wanted to go back home.

Home lays with the heart, and my heart lays with the ocean and the mountains.

My friends don’t understand; they’ve never lived anywhere else but the desolate prairies. They’ve never left their homes and their hearts behind.

In the prairies, I found god.

In the prairies, I lost faith.

Having finally thought found myself, I found myself lost. Amidst these strangers and strange things, I found religion to find stability.

With this religious stability, I found and weathered (whether or not I wanted to) many things: love, loss, despair, depression, suicide, self-loathing, self-hate, lies, and much more. With religion I learned to hate myself for who I was!

Who was I?

Bullying was not an aspect of my life until coming to the prairies. Hate was not an aspect of my life before coming to the prairies. I had no notion of what those really were, but I would soon learn. In the small town where I went to school, I was hated because I was from somewhere else. I wasn’t from another country. I wasn’t from a different race. I was simply not born in Saskatchewan, and so I was ostracized.

I love camping. It lets me be alone, and it lets me pretend that I am at home. With the woods blocking out the rest of the world, I can pretend that I am somewhere else.

When I was four, I broke my arm on a rock protruding from the ground. I was racing a friend back to our new house on Gabriola Island, and I lost my footing. The ferry to Nanaimo had already left, so it had to turn around so a four year old could be taken to the hospital. I honestly don’t remember the pain. I remember the wait of nearly nine hours before a doctor saw me, but the memory is like gossamer. How many lives did I interrupt in that moment? How many meetings were delayed, how many dates were cancelled? All because a four year old on a small island broke his arm?

When I was in my early twenties, I had my faith shaken. A few years later and it was shattered. This focal point of my existence was gone. All my decisions prior to this time were based off my faith, and now it was gone. My education (to become a youth pastor) was now useless, and all of those years felt like a massive waste.

 Growing up, the church taught me that there were only two genders and that being straight was proper, and anything else was a one-way ticket to hell. I believed them. Why wouldn’t I? These guys talked to God, they had to know what they were talking about.

Nudity was a large part of my bible college experience. I lived in an all-male dorm, and everyone was constantly half-to-completely nude. We would bond together on a couch while only wearing boxers, and often there would be cuddling involved. I enjoyed it. The physical contact felt good, and the openness that came with the nudity was refreshing. It was also intensely homoerotic, a claim which would be vehemently denied by my dorm mates.

When I discovered my own gender and sexuality, a year after I left the church, I was scared because I knew that I would go to hell. Even though I had no faith anymore, I was still scared that I would go to hell for this. Part of me still believed the hate that I had been taught as a child.

I wore bright leggings and bright pink lip-gloss to the first pride that I attended. My sister came with me, dressed even more flamboyantly; I’m pretty sure she even had glitter on her chest and neck.

I worked in a school.

I interned at one of the longest running film festivals in the world.

I work in an office.

Instead of moving closer to my goal, I have moved farther away from it.

With each transition, the narrative of my life grows more confusing. The plot, incoherent. The characters, despicable.

What happens next matters only as much as what has happened before. 

lingering thoughts

                As my thoughts linger, causing cancerous lesions in my mind, my fingers hover uselessly, unsure of what to type. Unsure of how to save my life. The longer I pause, the more time the lesions have to grow and spread until they consume my entire psyche. Until they become me. Thoughts corrupting thoughts corrupting thoughts until all that remains is simply corruption. Yet still I cannot type. Still I cannot expunge and heal. The corruption lingers.

                Once, in a fit of normalcy, I scraped clean an old rusted blade. It had been hanging, worthlessly, on a wall in the old garage for years. Alone and forgotten; neglected until it became corrupted. I felt pity for it. Why, I do not know… perhaps I felt a kinship towards it; after all, I too was neglected and corrupted. Therefore, I took it off the wall, sat down, and I began to clean it. As I worked away years of rust, my mind emptied. I lost myself in the work, and I became the work. At the end, I had a blade as clean as the day it was bought, but my mind was no more clean than it had been hours ago.

                The idle work of my hands allowed me to be distracted from my thoughts. It allowed me to pretend that I was not sick.

                It was a lie, but, to borrow a phrase, it was a pretty lie.

                Of course, as soon I was done the thoughts came crashing back with almost enough force to stagger me. Unfortunately, I was prepared for that. And it is unfortunate that anyone should be prepared for the sudden crushing weight of their own thoughts. One’s own thoughts should be uplifting and weightless, not a burden to bear.

                That is how I move through life: always looking for the next activity that can lift away my burdens for a short while. In those brief periods, I can pretend to be blissfully healthy and whole.

                I wish I knew of a way that I could just sit down and scrub away the corruption in my mind. Spend an afternoon mindlessly cleaning, at the end of which I would come away clean and whole. Alas, that remains merely a fantasy. A true cleaning of the corruption would take a lifetime of effort and will, and somedays I feel as though I lack all three.

                Through my writing, I heal, and yet most days I cannot bring myself to write even a sentence! I merely stare at an empty page until my self-loathing consumes me and I am left bitter and empty.

                So few hours in a life with so many things to accomplish, yet we waste these hours on what? Work so that we can pay the bills that allow us to continue to work? I cannot remember the last time I felt truly alive—it was summer, and the sky was clear. The lake which I stood waist deep in was a mirror and I was surrounded by the heavens. Everywhere I looked, I could see the stars. I could reach out and touch them. For scant moments, I was alive. Beautifully and truly alive. Instead I just feel empty. I would not say I feel nothing, for I do feel a deep and unending regret coupled with a yearning for something more.

                Amidst the regret lays a burning desire for something better. To find someplace where I truly belong. 

Standing Guard

I am saddened by the Canada I see before me. I see a plethora of jingoistic thought, and a disregard for core Canadian virtues. Scrolling through both social media and more traditional media exposes one to a growing “Canada First” perspective, and it breaks my heart. Canada has never been about putting Canada first; it has always been about putting people first. More specifically, it has always been about putting all peoples first. We, much like our southern neighbour, are a nation that was built by immigrants and refugees, and this jingoistic talk dishonours all Canadians who came before us.
Canada, first and foremost, stands for helping others. By picking up those who are knocked down, we pick ourselves up. Canadians have always stood for helping others. If something bad happens in a community, that whole community rises up—hell, the whole country rises up. Right now, the world is at a crossroads. Entire countries are in flames, with many more close to ignition. We are on the brink, and as a country we have two choices: continue to be the country the rest of the world knows us to be, or close ourselves off and lose what it means to be Canadian.
Those choices have ramifications for the entire world. If we stay open and accepting, we save the lives of thousands and maybe millions. We close ourselves off and we condemn millions to death. That’s what the choice boils down to: are we saviours or are we killers? To the Canadians who are clamouring to not let refugees in, are you so willing to become complacent in their deaths? Because I couldn’t sleep with that much blood my hands. To the Canadians who think we should be more like the States, have you even read the news lately? Have you looked at what they are becoming? We, as a country, are taking in people from the United States right now who are seeking asylum. And you want to become more like that country? Shame on you.
“What if we let them in and they’re terrorists?” Well, history says that’s not likely. And the last terror attack on Canadian soil was committed by a Canadian. A white Canadian. Not that I should have to make that distinction, but in today’s world apparently I do. The refugees we’ve welcomed into Canada have been nothing but thankful. And most of Canada has welcomed them with open arms. I believe that most of Canada still upholds Canadian values, and that it is just a vocal minority that is expressing these anti-Canadian sentiments.
Canada is, and always has been, a country that welcomes all with open arms. That is the Canada I stand on guard for. The True North, strong and free.

Trigger Warning: Buried lies, buried life.

This is my latest published article. It touches on depression and suicidal thoughts. If you are feeling depressed or suicidal, please talk to someone.  

As we age, we often look back upon our lives and wonder what could’ve been. If we had made better choices then would we be in a better place now? If I had gone left instead of right, if I had said yes instead of no, questions like that can haunt us.  

And maybe they should.  

Over the past two years, I have done a remarkable amount of soul-searching and self-discovery. In that time I came to terms with my sexuality, my gender, and my own mental health. I started to let go of the things that were holding me back. Past events that I kept hidden from everyone, including myself, that were stunting my personal growth. I would often lie about myself in the face of questions, and over time I came to believe my own lies. I lost myself. I buried myself is actually more accurate. I buried myself under the detritus of my lies, and I suffered for that.  

At the age of six, I decided to become religious. My parents did not force religion on me; they never made me go to church, or anything like that. It was my decision. The church, especially back then, was not accepting of people outside of gender norms, and of different sexualities. I was taught that it was a sin to be gay, and that gay marriage was wrong. And I believed it. For a long time. Whenever I had doubts or thoughts regarding my own sexuality I would bury it down. Whenever I did something (hug, cuddle, etc) with a guy, I would tell myself it was because of how secure I was in my own sexuality. Whenever I expressed interests in things that were “girly”, I would tell myself it was because of how masculine I was.  

I buried myself under the lies of my own making.  

I went to a bible college (one of the best in the country) that was actively against same-sex marriage, and routinely taught that homosexuality was not just a sin, but that it was simply wrong. I remember when another school backed out of a deal with mine over our stance on same-sex marriage, and our President painted the other school the villain, and I believed him. That homosexuality was wrong was ingrained in me. I didn’t even question it.  

The church disapproves of a lot, and it hides a lot. Members with mental health problems, be they anxiety, depression, or whatever, are told to pray more, or members of the congregation pray over them. If you were suffering from depression, you just obviously weren’t being a good Christian, so you hid it. You put a smile on, and you buried how you really felt so no one else could find out. This really fucked me up. Whenever I would feel down, I would just pray and pretend that everything was better. 

But it never was. It never got better.  

I kept things buried down, simmering out of sight, just waiting to explode. I would have outbursts of emotion: anger, fear, sadness, doubt. My self-worth and confidence became non-existent, and still I buried it down. I tried to keep it hidden from everyone. I didn’t want people to worry. I didn’t want to be shunned.  

This, of course, was extraordinarily bad for my mental health. I did end up on medication, which I hated for how it made me feel like I was empty. But the medication wasn’t my lowest point. That came in October of 2006.  

I was 16, still attending church where I was seen as a leader amongst the youth, and very active in the student council at my school. I wasn’t the most popular kid in school, but all the various cliques liked me. My days of being constantly bullied were behind me, and to the people looking in, my life seemed, well, good. The fact that every second was all out warfare in my mind was not evident to people. My feelings and problems were mine, dammit. I took in everyone’s problems, but never let anyone know mine. I had to be strong for everyone. That was my job, Jesus could take my burden, I would take everyone else’s. Unsurprisingly, this was not a good choice. I just became more and more depressed and worn out. I began to have suicidal thoughts. I wanted to escape, and I didn’t know how. I thought suicide was a legitimate option.  

So I decided to do it. I was home alone. I started cleaning before my parents left for a meeting, so I had music playing as I always did. Sometime after they left, I was ready. I won’t go into the details, they’re not important, but something happened that stayed my hand: a song started playing.  

The song was “Zero” by Hawk Nelson, and it’s about the affect that suicide has on everyone else. Words have always held power to me, and these words froze me in place. The lyrics washed over me, and I wept. At the end of the song, I collapsed and cried for a long time. Since that day, there have been many times when I’ve regretted not following through, but I have never acted on it again.  

This suicide attempt is one of the things I have kept buried. My depression is one of the things I have kept buried in. I didn’t want pity, I still don’t, but burying them down was not dealing with them. They are part of me. They, in a way, help to define me, and they allow me to relate. By pretending they didn’t exist within me, I was perpetrating the stigma that exists around mental health. Not only that, I was still damaging my own.  

I was, and am, so used to keeping things buried, that I didn’t give it a second thought. For years, I kept those thoughts buried down deep. 

I feel out of the church in my early twenties. I got so tired of the hypocrisy that I was seeing in its members. All these people claiming to serve god while they just served themselves, never mind the fact that felt that god had turned his back on me. For the first time since I was six, I didn’t know the direction of my life. I had gone to school to be a youth pastor for a church and a god that I no longer trusted. All that time and money I had invested became for naught. I was rudderless.  

It was around this time that the walls I had built began to crumble, and all my latent feelings and beliefs about gender and sexuality started bubbling forth. When I was religious I had assumed that my lack of sexual attraction to people stemmed from how awesome of a Christian I was. But I wasn’t a Christian anymore, and I still wasn’t being sexually attracted to people. I thought I was broken. So I buried it. Like I always did. Bad habits are hard to break.  

As I moved away from the church, more and more of my friends were queer, so I became immersed in that world. I read papers about it, I read articles, and I researched the history and the different aspects of it. In my studies, I stumbled across an article about asexuality. It intrigued me, so I read it. And it fit. Things made sense. I wasn’t broken, I was asexual. I was excited and I read everything I could find on it! I had the beginnings of a path in front of me; I just had to follow it! I was overjoyed. 

I think I told two people. 

I was still figuring it out; it was still new and personal. And I didn’t want to share. What if I was wrong? After all, things hadn’t worked out so well for me last time I thought things made sense. I guess I was mainly scared. Part of me still believed that not being straight was a sin, and all of a sudden, I wasn’t straight.  

With this new perspective, I looked back on my life: all the times cuddling with my male roommates, all the times flirting random guys in the city. Was it possible that, not only was I asexual, but also not heteroromantic? The answer was yes. As I researched more, as I dug into myself more, I discovered that I was more panromantic than hetero.  

But how I could come to terms with this? How could I let myself be honest, not just with myself, but with everyone?  

Unfortunately, I wasn’t done with the self-discoveries.  

As I reflected on my life trying to figure out what kind of man I was, I realized that I wasn’t a man. I wasn’t a woman either though, so this discovery left me more rattled than I was before. In the midst of discovering my sexuality, I began questioning my gender. My whole life I KNEW I was a man. That’s what everyone said I was. That’s what my biology told me. Now that fact was being called into question. Gender identities weren’t taught in high school and I went to a Christian college, so this wasn’t an area I had had much experience in.  

Thank goodness for Google. 

I found non-binary on a list of genders. It fit. It made sense. All the anomalous past events—those things that ‘normal’ guys don’t do—started making sense. Slowly, after decades of lying to myself, I was beginning to truly find myself.  

Looking back now at my past, there are parts I regret. I wish I had discovered my sexuality and gender at a younger age. Maybe I would’ve liked myself more. Some days I wish I had followed through with my suicide attempt, most days I don’t, but I’m more honest about my mental health now, and it’s getting better. It’s not something that will ever go away, but it’s become something that I can admit to and deal with in a healthy manner. I’m slowly becoming more open with people, and I am becoming more comfortable with my own skin. I still dress and act like a man on a daily basis; partly because it’s habit, partly because I’m still scared to be 100% me.  

As I sit here, looking back, I have regrets. We all do. I wish I had done things differently. I wish I had handled certain situations better, and I wish I had treated certain people better. But if anyone asks me if I would go back and change anything, I say no. Everything that has happened, all the bad, all the good, all the mistakes, they all brought me to where I am today. My experiences have made me the person that I am. And now that I’m actually being honest with myself, I’m starting to like that person.