Nihilism at its finest

I’m just going to write and post this because lately every time I attempt to put something in writing I end up deleting it.

I’m tired. Often I find I’m too tired to write lately, which is very saddening, because writing is my therapy. I recently received a job promotion at my 9-5, and the best part is, I genuinely enjoy what I do. The way it works out though, after taxes and deductions, I actually make about the same as I made in my previous position. In my previous job, there were overtime opportunities, so often I’d actually make MORE than I do now. I know the experience I’m receiving in this new position is priceless (or so I’m told), but I’m feeling cynical about it all, and a little hopeless. I have loads of student and credit card debt, bills on top of bills, and no end in sight. I was more on top of my finances when I was serving tables than I am now. But I hated serving tables. Mostly because I hated the questions whenever I called home, inquiring as to why I was still serving tables. I have always struggled with trying to make others happy without thinking about my needs. I fear “failure”, whatever that is. And so I worked my ass off and got out of serving and into a coveted 9-5 comfy job. Yes it’s comfortable, yes I have benefits. It’s all good. But is it? Is this what I’ve wanted, or is this what we are told to want? I let the system brainwash me, and now I feel more confused than 16 year old me.

I hate to play the millennial card, but we are a doomed generation. As children we were told we could be ANYTHING we wanted to be. But reality hits when you turn 17 and you are told you must go to university, but to do that you have to take out thousands of dollars in student loans; but don’t worry, you don’t have to pay those until 6 months after you graduate!! So you enjoy your liberal arts degree because it fulfills your soul and mind, until 6 months before graduation, when the anxiety and realization of what 17-year-old you signed up for begins to creep in. So there you are, smiling through the fear as you collect your $40,000 piece of paper with absolutely no career prospects and no clue how to manage your finances.

Here I am, 2.5 years after achieving my degree, with this career thing I was supposed to get, and a boyfriend who also has a full time career, yet we are struggling to make ends meet. And it makes me so frustrated and upset. If this is the life society shoves down our throats from high school into adulthood, we need to re-evaluate what is truly important in life. I no longer receive those calls from home wondering where the hell my life is headed, because in their eyes, I’ve hit the jackpot! I have my career started, there’s no need to worry! Right? Well, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. When I got to the end of the rainbow there was no pot of gold, just a heap of anxiety and a slap in the face from reality.

And so I’m going to make more time for the things I love to do. Writing is my number one, and painting is a new thing in which I find great enjoyment. I need to piece together how to make an income from writing so I can finally do what I love to do. If anyone has any tips, please let me know. 😊

I apologize for the bitterness. I just needed to return to my therapeutic ways. I have many positive things upcoming, but today I needed to vent. Does anyone else ever just feel so frustrated, but they don’t feel they have a proper outlet? Thank you for allowing me to unwind.





Other Half

I know I don’t say these words enough, but know that they are so;

I love you and will love you until my heart beats no more.

How can I know that I love you so when I’m barely 25 and you’re two years my junior?

Well, beautiful soul, this is how I know:

I carried half of you inside my belly, and although the timing wasn’t right, the feeling was.

You’re the man of my dreams and my partner in crime. You stood by my side as my only support system when I felt as though I lost half of myself. I will forever love you for how you care for me even in my darkest times.







Note to Self:

The pain you cause me is impalpable. I can’t begin to describe the inner anguish you stir when you tell me I’m not good enough. I’m never good enough for you.  I’m always trying to prove myself, to be better than I was the day before. It’s never enough. You always unearth another flaw; another inconsistency woven into my fabric.

Well, thanks to you, I’m unravelling.

Free me for a moment, tormented mind, from your unforgiving shackles. Free me of your own impossible expectations and of others’.

You are only one woman, you can’t take on the world.





Featured Image: Sunrise

An Uninformed Take on Picasso and Surrealism

Reclining Woman Reading (Femme Couchee Lisant), 1960

A week ago I had the pleasure of viewing the Vancouver Art Gallery’s exhibit Pablo Picasso: The Artist and His Muses. My art history background is minimal, so pardon my ignorance when speaking of it. One thing I did learn from my past studies of art is this: we can ponder and decipher works of art at exhaustive length, but what you take from art is what matters most. While I do love and appreciate the curator notes that accompany art, I often find they take away from the experience of the piece itself. Halfway through the Picasso exhibit I stopped reading the notes altogether and simply observed the paintings, and what I found is that art cannot be limited to a paragraph, it needs to speak for itself. I wandered around the gallery, offering each piece a gaze until something grasped my attention. Picasso’s work in Surrealism pulled me into a form of art that lacks limitation and stretches the constraints of reason. For an over-thinker such as myself, a style of art that is absent of control and perfectionism is to be exalted.

The Weeping Woman, 1937


Picasso defies the geometrics of the corpus of man; the boundaries of even the most definite biological truths are pushed with paintings such as The Weeping Woman (Picasso, Pablo. 1937). You experience the face of the muse from various perspectives simultaneously, from either side and the centre at once. Although to the rational mind this painting depicts impossibility and therefore a falsehood, it speaks of a truth louder than the most perfect depiction of a woman could. By capturing various perspectives, you experience the anguish and sadness of the muse from all angles at once, thus being drawn more deeply into Picasso’s own intentions. He successfully forgoes what we know to be aesthetically so, and speaks to a truth that is deeper than reason. It’s like art for the soul.

Picasso has awakened my creative soul that was in a deep slumber for a few months. He reminded me that true art cannot be limited to my own controlling thoughts and what is known to be societally accepted. You must stretch the boundaries of what you thought possible. In art, perfection is not the goal, truth is; and within truth lay beauty.


Featured image: The Kiss. Picasso, Pablo. 1969.


Edit: I’d like to concede that I was wrong in referring to the above mentioned art as Surrealism, when it is in fact Cubism. Thank you to the blogger Audrey for kindly pointing that out! Although Cubism inspired the Surrealist movement, it was wrong to group them together. I still stand by everything else I said about Picasso, his art and the influence it had on me :).



The Second Line

I posted about this about a year ago, but deleted it soon after. I was terrified about the reaction it would get, the commotion it may cause. This will be the most difficult thing I’ve posted to date, but I need to do it for a few reasons. I need closure. I never had the chance to grieve properly, and so the devastation of this loss has been pushed down and suppressed. I also hope that in sharing my story, I can help provide comfort to other women who are going through, or have gone through something similar. You are not alone. Here is my story.


I remember it like it was yesterday, that fateful day in May/14. My hands and heart trembled as the second line appeared on the screen of the stick: Pregnant. Every possible emotion came at me in waves while I sat in the bathroom stall all alone; but I wasn’t really alone, was I? Life was dancing inside my belly in that very moment. I cried because I finally felt whole, I smiled because it confirmed I was fertile, I laughed because I was taking a pregnancy test in a public bathroom, I broke down because I knew the timing was all wrong. I was 22 and without a clue: I had a $40,000 piece of paper with no job prospects, no money and a recently mended relationship with the man I’d loved relentlessly. I’d always known I wanted to be a mother someday, but someday was happening too fast. I wasn’t ready.

When I got home that night, my boyfriend and I lay in bed, his hand and head on my stomach, his eyes soaking my belly with tears, mourning what was but couldn’t be. I booked the procedure the next morning and it was scheduled to take place one week later.

Even though I knew the pregnancy would be short lived, I spent that week hyper aware of the cells swimming inside my belly. Although they wouldn’t be mine for long, I wanted to nurture them and take care of my body while it lasted. I ate good food, I didn’t drink alcohol, I felt much more aware of my surroundings than I had previously. Unless you’ve been in this position before, you may not understand how I could nurture something I wasn’t going to keep. Trust me, I wish I fully understood. My maternal instincts were clashing with grief and guilt. Just because I’m pro-choice doesn’t mean I’m proud of this moment, I felt shame and disgust with myself for being so negligent. I also felt a completeness I’d never experienced before, a oneness with the cells in my stomach.

The day of the procedure was the scariest day of my life. The clinic I went to did everything in their power to make me feel comfortable and safe, and to ensure I was making the right decision before going through with it. Although that day is a blur in my mind now, I remember the ultrasound so clearly. The nurse had the monitor turned away from me as she told me I was 5 weeks pregnant. I asked to see the monitor and without hesitation she showed me. There it was, my cells, a little dot on the screen. I loved those cells more than I’ve loved anything, but I knew I was making the right decision. For myself, for that baby. It confirmed my desire to one day have children, but it had to be at the right time. When I could emotionally and financially provide for a child, because I want my future kids to always feel whole, to feel supported and loved.

The day after my procedure I had to go back to work. I was not even close to ready. Mentally and physically I needed time to rest, but if my boss asked why I needed time off, what could I say? So I wiped away the tears and blood and went back to work. I grieved internally for a very long time. The sight of small children led to panic attacks. How does one move on from something they can’t openly address? How does one grieve a loss without a funeral, without the consoling and gathering of loved ones? I grieved the loss of my baby in silence. I didn’t name him but I had a strange feeling it was a “him.” 2 years later, that feeling of wholeness I experienced during my pregnancy is replaced from time to time with an extreme, overwhelming void. That feeling hadn’t hit me in a very long time, and when it hit me while I was at work the other day, I felt as though I couldn’t bear its weight.

This is the very reason I’m posting this on my blog. I contemplated posting it under an alias, but I don’t want to hide anymore. I’m hoping my honesty will encourage other women who are silently grieving to seek professional help, to confide in a family member or friend, or to find solace in knowing you are not alone. If you have no one you can turn to, you can email me at: I’m here to listen if you need an empathetic ear.


Thank you fellow bloggers for allowing me to break my silence. 







There is no greater sorrow than to recall our times of joy in wretchedness. – Dante Alighieri, Inferno

Have you ever been on a red-eye flight,

With your mind racing faster than the speed of light?

Thoughts pinging against the windshield of your head,

Corruption, lies, deceit- it all seems so clear.

Yet we remain complaisant,

It isn’t alright.

I am splitting at the seams-

When innocent men are shot dead in the streets you used to walk,

And the real criminals are the ones on the ballot.

As we watch it unfold, the horror is muffled by the screen it’s received on,

It’s like a really bad reality TV show-

Wake up America,

This is your reality now.

When it’s your turn to speak to the camera- what will you say?

Will you share yet another photo of clothes or shoes,

Get lost in the mindless celebrity feuds,

Or will you stand up and fucking say something?

But it’s easy to be a social justice warrior at 5 am and with 37,000 ft beneath me,

With a birds-eye view of what the earth once was, not what its become.

Let us revert to what matters most-

Not the things, but the people and places.

Because a life void of materialism is a life of fulfillment-

And a life void of experiences and people to share them with,

Isn’t a life worth living.





Fairy Tales

She sat across the living room from her father, but felt worlds apart.

“You were the first man in my life. You set the tone for how I expect to receive love from men.”

He stared at her in disbelief, his tone changing from conversational to defensive, “What do you mean! Where is this coming from?”

She looked at her mother, seated so dedicatedly next to her father, the man who consistently broke both of their hearts. She was listening to the conversation, but her face held no emotion. It was void.

“Because of you, I think every man will inevitably cheat on me,” was all she managed to utter as the words caught in her throat, tears streaming down her face.

He became more agitated with this, “Why would you think that! What’s going on with you?”

She wanted to tell him everything. That she knew he was planning to leave mom to live the single life again. That he was infatuated with a girl younger than her. That he had broken her heart and her entire ability to believe in love. She couldn’t speak these words. Not in front of mom.

So she said everything she never had the guts to say since her father sat her down as a young girl and told her he had cheated on her mom. The pain its caused, the inability to trust, the fear that no matter what, she will never be deserving of love.


She wants so badly to believe that someone can love her forever, but at her darkest hours, she wonders if Forever after only exists in fairy tales.