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This is what it could look like when one completely deconstructs a life as one knows it, and how to build from the ground up. Alternatively, this is a fresh look at an old story. The fine art of falling apart.

Man in black and white Monday, June 25, 2007 |

Man in black and white
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

Dear Chicago,
I had one of those dreams again, last night. The ones that are super furry around the edges and I get the feeling as though I'd lived that life before. I know the people but their actions are foreign to me. People are nicer, I'm able to figure out things easily. I know my place. I know everyone elses place, and the reason behind their actions. I don't really care for those dreams, except for the enhanced 'knowing' aspect, the dreams feel like real life.

I think medication must be taking affect because I feel subdued from activities. Today for example, I went out and did a little shopping. Something for dinner, something to wear to bed. Then home. Exhausted, I jumped into the shower (cold, if you must know) and tried to wash the heat off my body. Then, I made something to eat and fell asleep in front of a movie.

Hours later, I'm still sleepy and have three fans going in my room because of the heat. I don't think I'll get any rest this evening, just because of how restless I feel. I hate being a slave to my emotions. I wish I could be clearheaded and firm for once.

For instance, most of my family think the MSW program in New York (to start this August) is a bad idea. Personally, I happen to think it will force me into a position of completing my master's as opposed to putting it off for various reasons (something I been doing for the past 4 years). And I want to go to that specific school. And I am excited about living in New York. Craig will be nearby and I shouldn't feel too lonely. The program is about 8 months long. I think I would rather do a clinical placement at a famous crazy hospital rather than at a school board here in Ontario.

Call me crazy (I do), but I just want this for me. Just me, this time.

answers for readers Saturday, June 23, 2007 |

You might get in, but we won't let you in to see the real show.

Hey, thanks for coming to the blog, leaving comments, and sending emails about the content. I usually answer unless things are really busy. Right now, they aren't so I thought I would write an entry about some of the emails I've been fielding as of late.

First off: Despite the title of my personal blog (what you are reading right now) I'm not in any way affiliated with Matthew Good, The Matthew Good Band or anything else that is Matthew Good related. If you're looking for information relating to Matthew Good, it might be worth visiting his personal site which you can find at:

Secondly, my relationship status is ever changing. You can try to keep score by the nicknames, or you can start numbering from when you started reading and try to keep track that way.

Third. It's official. I'm officially nuts. I was diagnosed with having Bipolar type 2 a couple of weeks ago, which may (or may not) explain some of the more obscure entries in this blog. Yes, we are treating it, and no, I don't think I will be taking photographs if I am ever committed. But thanks for asking...?

In any event, I'm tired out. Doing nothing but writing all day does that to you. I've got a cold, so I'm mildly cranky. Bed time.

great expectations Thursday, June 21, 2007 |

You know, when I sit down to write something, it never turns the way I've expected it to. The same goes for telephone conversations. Those of you have endured, I thank you, and those of you that thus far avoided it, good job!

There is something inherently weak about the human race, that the smallest thing to tip the balance can become increasingly clear as new information is revealed. I'm a revealer of information myself, so I understand the concept.

For instance, I've been revealing things, personal aspects of myself to another for a number of months. But when it came right down to the last minute detail, which was whether or not he can handle the diagnosis, I saw in his face what he couldn't articulate. His mouth was saying all the right things, but his body wasn't. And I might have wept if it was for another reason, because in all honesty I don't know if I can handle my condition anymore than someone else. Why should I foist upon someone that I need to take time off work to get my head on straight. Or the medication I am on may decease my sex drive. Or that I will be a moody bitch for 2 weeks out of a month?

Do you see where I'm going, here? I have to adjust my vision to something with less expectations of other people. Because in the end, it's your breath you hear in the dark, your mind whispering things.

Anyhow, it feels like Fall right now. I had my bedroom window open for much of the week but had to close it today because I thought it was too cold. Now, though. I don't care. I'm prepared with a sweater. I can't bear this room if it weren't for the window. The weather makes me bring the camera out for thing like waxy yellow leaves, or vivid reds of Maple trees. But it's only June and those sorts of things are miles away.

Now, though it's nearly, I'll just follow my warped instinct and keep my mouth shut. No more revealing for today.

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out of gas |

out of gas
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

The level of fuel in my car is usually low, and now that I don't have a job, I've noticed the 'out of gas' light light up more often than as previous. But this time, I think I hit an all-time low.

This is where one can say, ah she's hit her plateau. What I would say in response is that there is no plateau for me. Not yet. I'm not running around with a sticker on my forehead that says I'm crazy, but on the other hand, close friends of mine know what's going on. Because there are quite a few hours I spent on my own, but do not recall, no matter how hard I've tried.

It's morning time, where I am. The air is a bit spoiled from the brewery behind my house. I live near the Labatt place and sometimes when the wind is right, you get a wiff of something that just makes you want to retch. The sun is out, and it feels like a cool Spring morning. The weather online say it is to thunder and storm later on. But looking out of my bedroom window, one wouldn't have any idea.

lying on the gurney, staring up at the blinding light. Thirsty. So thirsty. Nothing floating through my mind, with the exception of getting home as soon as possible. You weren't there, and neither was the other one. None belonging there, I suppose. It's been awhile since I've felt there was someone below to catch me with a net, like all those silly Saturday morning cartoons from 1983.

Only it's not 1983, it's 2007 and I have no excuse for my behaviour. I need to take responsibility for my actions, not my family and/or friends.

Oh, Interpol was just playing on my clock radio, and I had a sense of Deja Vu where it felt like I was living in the house I bought 2 years ago, but sold one year ago. Early mornings spent in the hammock with coffee and cigarettes. The knowledge that no one knew I was back there unless they came through the back yard.

I miss that house. But its just a material thing. And lately, there isn't much room for fancifull day dreaming.

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peanuts for the squirrels Monday, June 18, 2007 |

Ok, so I don't want to make a big fuss about anything, nor do I expect anyone to fall at my feet because of what I am about to tell you.

ok, first things first. It's a cool Monday morning, and I've just brewed my first pot of coffee in my new coffee maker. Not a big deal, huh? It is to me when I realise I've never owned a coffee maker before, nor was I ever interested in the subtle differences in french roast, columbian picked, or fair trade coffee.

I wanted the Fair trade coffee but because of the price, settled for something a little different. French vanilla roasted beans that I ground up in the gorcery store while my older sister watched me with my new treat. I'm enjoying this cup of coffee now, even though there isn't an cream to be found in the house, so I must drink it black.

Bold, hearty and robust, and french vanilla-y, is how I would describe this coffee. Tasty, even without cream.

Ok, so I was diagnosed as being Bipolar type 2 last week. It took me a few hours to get used to the fact that I am now labelled as having a potentially serious mental health problem. When I say hours, I mean that I drove around saying 'holy shit' to myself in the car. Clutching a new bunch of prescription notes, I went to the pharmacy and had them filled. The bottles rattled around in my backpack like a new song.

As Mattie would say: I felt like I could potentially open my own pharmacy with the amount of prescription drugs I now take. This is bothersome for me, because apparently I will have to take this stuff in order to avoid any serious 'episodes' in the future. The language of Bipolar is interesting, as well. Episodes, disease, hypomania, 40% of Bipolar type 2 population attempt suicide.

So that's it. I have Matthew Good as a friend who understands what I'm going through, he knows the lingo, he understands about the drugs. He *gets* it. It's hard for me to explain, but I could be saying something and he'll finish the sentence. And that's comforting. I also have the goodwill of my family, mostly because I think for them it explains why I do a lot of the things I do.

And you know, I was going to make this a friends only entry, but now I'm saying Fuck it. I'm bipolar, big deal, so is half the population.

the end (for now)Love,Gish

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companion {32/365} Saturday, June 16, 2007 |

companion {32/365}
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

I can't handle the diagnosis. I'm going to the sanctuary to lay with Buckley and sleep, read.

I am so tired. Tired of trying, tired of pretending I can do this and be even. I'll never be even.

So much to say, but really.....like someone said to me: what's the point?


here I am Thursday, June 14, 2007 |

here I am
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

doctors today. medication. a third year medical student that had no idea what the phrase "Freaked out" meant, more medication. Speculation. Talk. And now, a diagnosis. One that is supposed to ground me to the earth with an explanation of what is wrong with me.

What is wrong with me.

What is wrong with me.
What is wrong with me.
What is wrong with me.
What is wrong with me.
What is wrong with me.
What is wrong with me.
What is wrong with me.
What is wrong with me.
What is wrong with me.
What is wrong with me.
What is wrong with me.
What is wrong with me.
What is wrong with me.


I really am alone now.

london calling Wednesday, June 13, 2007 |

If photos were feelings, this is how I feel. This photo is from a couple of years ago. My slightly distracted/disinterested look while I suck back hot coffee.

Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

It's only 10 p.m. and I am going to bed. I haven't been sleeping for about 2 weeks, and have instead been in a state of 'high as a kite', drunk off my ass, or cranky beyond belief.

Thinking it was a good idea, I tell a 'friend' he can come over and hang around the apartment. Now, I just want him out of my face, off my couch, out of the fucking house because the very pitch of his voice is driving me nuts. I'm nuts already, but I mean fingernails on a black board kind of way.

And it's hot. So hot that I just want to sleep in my underwear and not have to worry about how sexy or inviting I look, even though I feel the exact opposite. I have a bunch of movies I will put on before I fall asleep, ones I haven't watched in awhile. Based on Mattie's recommendation, I was trying to find Deadwood on dvd but haven't been able to track down season 1 yet.

Oh and the Sopranos. I can't tell if that last episode was really deep and totally flew over my head, or if they are just setting up for a movie. Movies of series are all fine and good, but you don't end the series which a freaking anti-climatic episode such as the last one of the Sopranos.

Kind of makes me want to watch M*A*S*H again, but on tv not on dvd. God bless Nick Drake. If that seems random to you, then I guess you don't know what I mean. *sigh*

Anyway, I'd better go. I have spare baggage that I am kicking out of my apartment and an early doctor's appointment in the morning.

Arg. go home.

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everything just got over me |

I'm sure in the grand scheme of things, my depression and as of yet undiagnosed neurosis are small potatoes compared to the suffering that is going on in other parts of the world.

But I can't even think past what I will be doing in 15 minutes, let alone the loss of countrymen, civilian lives and other pieces of humanity in general.

My theory is that despite all of our wishes, hopes and dreams....humans are locusts with brains. We consume, build, destroy and paint ourselves into corners. We do this knowingly, if you believe the environmentalists. Or we do it unknowingly, if you believe all those proud Americans for all the wars they actually had no business starting or being involved with.

My theory is finite. We don't have a sustainable future. As a race, humans aren't meant to perservere. This whole earth thing, as in planet earth is a one shot deal. Unlike Sim City, we don't get to start over. We think too much, and we don't think enough. We act too quickly and do not make up for the damage we've done to anything we've touched.

The only thing I can think of that even remotely interests me in life, is art. And trust me when I say that it's only a matter of time before that's soiled with the leaking parts of my radioactive brain. Love? you ask. I don't have any faith in it. I think it's for certain kinds of people, and I just happen to be the other kind. I'm not a girl that gets to have love.

It's with those thoughts, that I ponder the usefullness of my own existence. A friend tells me that we have no other option but to keep slogging through the mess we've made of our lives. But, somewhere inside of me, I know that it's only a matter of time before there are no more words from me, and I am underwater.

The past few days have been bad. I've had worse, but I can feel myself sinking below the water line, and knowing there isn't really anything or anyone that can thrown me a life saver. And really, who cares anyway?

The Fine Art of Falling Apart - The Matthew Good Band

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weapon Monday, June 11, 2007 |

Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

here by my side, it's heaven
here by my side, you are destruction...

I'm not one of those girls that has a gazillion huge tattoos all over her body. I have 5 small ones, one is a drawing and is about 1.5 inches in size. The other four are choice words or phrases that I like and they are all hidden from view, or can be with bracelets.

For instance, the latest one is Weapon. I put it on my right wrist. We hurt other with our hands We type or write words that sting like nettle. It's also the title of my favourite song by Matthew Good. That song came from a time I believe as having woken up from a suburbia-induced coma. My right hand is connected to my heart.

The only problem with that is, once you're awake, you can't ever get back to sleep. careful...

I wanted to write something more whimsical, but I'm sleepy now. The telephone was ringing off the hook yesterday but I hid from it under the sheets. Today not such a good day, I guess I was crashing from the good days I had earlier this week. I feel as though I can slowly wind myself up in the red curtains Sylvia Plath was making when she killed herself. What a poet.

So...bed time.

Love, Gish

Weapon - Matthew Good

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the age old question Saturday, June 09, 2007 |

Jeans and a t-shirt or t-shirt and jeans?

Rose and I are *supposed* to go out tonight, but it's getting later and later and neither of us appear to be anywhere near ready to the meet the exceptionally high standards of downtown London, Ontario.

I felt the need to clarify 'Ontario'.

I'm also debating high heels. If I do heels, I'll have to stay reasonably sober so as to not fall flat on the finely arched eyebrows of my face. If I choose a lower heel (most are 3 inch or higher) then I can rest assured that I won't end up tasting concrete tonight.

On the other hand, I look freaking *HOT* in highheels, and with the black bustier I was sort of planning on wearing...I'd be like...molten. Molten something, anyway.

And also I'll admit here that I will use the slow and sleazy comfort of gin and tonics to wash away the day. I saw my nephews Riley and Danny for the first time in over 2 years today. We spent 6 hours laughing, eating and driving around looking for yard sales. Eating ice cream. Their father has finally agreed to contact and access. And I know it's good. It was good to see them, parts of my heart must be scabbing over while I type this, but the look in their eyes when they asked me I didn't come back for them sooner, nearly did me in.

I guess they dont know I'm emotionally fragile. Not their fault.

So, now I am listening to ancient Daniel Johnston songs and wondering what the hell 30 years old women wear to clubs. I'm afraid of the answer and will likely show up in a black tshirt and a pair of blue jeans. I'm not a club girl, never will be and can't even imagine the TIME it takes for one to get ready. I slap on some makeup, make sure my teeth are brushed and my underwear isn't showing (long story) and I'm out the door.

I called A friend in B.C to say hello, then answered the telephone like I was Alice in Wonderland or something. Keep thinking of falling down rabbit holes. I guess the advertising worked, Matt. I bought an old rotary phone at a yard sale today, its sitting proudly beside my bed. It rings oh so gently when someone calls me. So I'll go out tonight, with two 50 dollar bills wrapped around my Driver's License (I'm a cheap drunk) and see if I can consume enough to dance in public.

For some unknown reason, I'm struck with indecision this evening.
I guess I'd better get on with it.

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words I use |

Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

I took this photo a little while ago. The word 'mother' stood out to me. My mother is worried about me. I adore her, and it hurts me when she is worried. I'll talk about my mother in more detail at some point.

I've been listening to a lot of Matthew Good (for night time music) and Ani DiFranco (to get my Bitch on). Instead of cursing anything that has gone wrong the past month, I'm in the unique position (again) of concentrating on getting even, and looking at things to do that I would normally pass on.

The evil nasty down mood hasn't been around for a couple of days, I actually feel like my old self today. Yesterday was a little manic, I did some things pretty impulsive. I got two two new tattoos (small ones) for a very reasonable price at Addictive Tattoo here in London. I also bought some new skirts as the plan is to remain in skirts, tshirts and flipflops all summer. I also splurged on a manicure and pedicure (30 dollars) and some Starbucks coffee (which I normally don't bother with). I was a buying machine yesterday.

Today, I will see my two nephews, Riley and Danny for the first time in 2 years. I was able to work out an agreement with their father who used to be quite unapproachable (I think the court papers I prepared had something to do with it) and now, I and the rest of the family will have regular access to them. So, later on today I am sure my mood will change as I will have a lot of questions to answer.

The weather around here is on crack. 35 degrees one day, then 18 degrees the next. Consistency would be nice.

There are a few concerts I would like to attend this summer, but with having no job I doubt I will get out there. Buckley likes to eat watermelon, which I usually snack on before bed.

And thanks to Mattie, I have a thing for cheese now. Freshly grated Parmesan and asiago on top of any pizza I'm eating. I can only hope I do not move on to Tapas after this addiction, as I'm currently broke and can't afford such things *grin*

Anyway, my youngest nephew, Nicholaki is having a birthday party tomorrow, he turned 2 earlier this week. I got him a ball he can jump on. I better put a helmet on him, just in case.
Love, Gish

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going on forever Friday, June 08, 2007 |

going on forever
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

Well, it seems the fates are a little aligned against me. When I look at that photograph, new possibilities come to life. I need to stop worrying about money and land where the wind takes me.

I was fired yesterday. Not for the reasons management gave me, but rather because of the state of my mental health. Yes, my mental health. Which is all fine and good to make a fuss about, but in reality I don't think that anything can be done about it because they didn't tell me they were doing it because of my mental health (which would be illegal, right?)

In any case, the way I am looking at it right now is this:
New possibilities
freedom to seek them out
freedom to get better
that this, in itself is an oppourtunity.

And because I'm a girl (even though I told MG yesterday that I am usually not a pussy while crying on the phone to him) I am going to get a manicure and a pedicure.

Before anyone freaks out about my spending money on this sort of thing, I'll just let you know there are places I get them for 30 for both. So there.

Im mostly crushed that people at that Children's Aid Society would think I would do the things they said I did in order to fire me. It's beyond my comprehension. I'm a social worker, the theory and practice was ingrained in my very thoughts during four years of university, then during 4 years practicing in the field.

So.....I'm just going to take a couple of days to just breath. I've applied for a couple of jobs this morning, one in Vancouver (which is probably a stupid idea) and I'll see if anything comes from that.

so that's it. That's as honest as it gets around here.

Giving up the girl Wednesday, June 06, 2007 |

Showering was starting to get difficult these days. In the past, I really enjoyed the whole routine of gathering the necessary items I would need in order to slip beneath the spray of slippery warm water, and have time to be alone. I’d select a clean t-shirt and pajama bottoms from the laundry basket of clothes I hadn’t gotten around to putting away, place them on the little upholstered stool at the edge of the bathtub. I’d make sure my yellow, thigh-length robe was hanging on the outside of the bathroom door. Check to make sure the jasmine-scented soap was still in the wire basket hanging from the shower head. Enough shampoo and conditioner for another wash. A brown towel hanging on the towel rack, ready to grab.

I loved the routine of things. The general state of being. My professors used to say I responded well to structure, pressure. But really, it felt like air trapped in a box. A simple thing, a shower…yes? It is. Every day, in nearly every household, thousands of people had their own little routines and took millions of showers, on every street, in every house. They did it unknowingly, just another step in the train of their days. Shit, shower and shave, so to speak. A general state of being.

But every time I went to gather my things, to set the taps running, it was like a tiny needle, moving under my skin. A small pinch. A small hurt. I don’t really think it was the shower itself, the water moving over me in small rivers and lakes was enjoyable, beautiful, moving poetry on my skin. Being there, reading the words of the love letters he had papered the walls with, years before. Yellowed, some of the lines unreadable, condensation long dried, wet, dried and wet again. A thousand times over.

It was those letters, I think. Every time I slipped into the shower, every time I let the water run through my hair and over my skin, I read those letters. I’d read them, standing up in the shower, peeking over the shower curtain, eyes following the lines even when I knew what they read.

When he started pasting them to the walls, I laughed and said they’d never stick. When one fell down, he’d carefully place it back from where it had fallen. I’d laughed and said it was a silly idea, I already knew how much he loved me and I certainly didn’t need to read about it while I washed my hair. He would say nothing, and just smoothed the paper on the wall, his hands running along creases and yellowed paper. So, they stayed there. I left them where they were and read them as I slid the bar of soap from my wrists to my shoulders, hands on myself.

All I remember is how he looked in the moonlight, while he was leaning over me, trying to catch my eye as we moved like two ribbons tangled in the wind. If I closed my eyes, I could see his slim body, white against the black. His ribs making their own shadows in lines with the moonlight sneaking in through the window. I’d watch his chest and how it moved with every gasp. I’d draw tighter around him. Trying to keep him in.

So now, I delayed the whole showering business an hour or so past when I was normally getting wet and wild under hot water. Instead of rising and hopping in, I would slip out of bed, pull on a pair of pajama pants and stand in the kitchen while I waited for my tea to steep. The window in that tiny room is long and thin, it looks out to the space between my house and the neighbors. I’d notice the change in seasons during my five minute tea making sojourn in the kitchen. The mists in early morning would be gathering between the houses, curling in the goldenrod that grew in profusion out there. Steeping tea, I’d watch the sun come into the space and burn the mist away, leaving little droplets of dew on glossy leaves of grass.

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I wonder...how many times will anyone listen to the same sort of bullshit another person spews forth.
I wonder...what is the breaking point.
I wonder...if I've already exceeded the limit for what people are willing to put up with, when it comes to me.

The man in B.C can't talk, his mouth unable to open or close because of another in a series of painful dental visits. I guess not even email is worth staying awake for, for that I can understand.

Number 1, awoken from a sound sleep to listen to the sound of tears slipping down my face as I yet again, was unable to articulate what the problem is.

Craig, a long lecture on the telephone tonight about drugs, and giving up pretenses and just letting love happen to me.

One last email sent to the Apostle, imploring for an explanation to our farce of a friendship.

and still, I feel like I'm sealing my words into a large jar, never to be heard by anyone.

studio space Monday, June 04, 2007 |

My fingers have been a blur over the keyboard all morning. I feel like Super Woman Typer Person, or similar.

I brought another bag of cherries to work this morning. Everyone eats them before I get any real action in there, but I guess that’s ok. My coffee has gone stone cold and all I can think about is a freaking cheque that I want to get, but haven’t, even though technically I don’t know what I would do with the cash anyway.

I am excited about one thing: I’m going to go look at real studio space this afternoon. I’ve been eyeing this building for a few years and on the outside, it looks exactly like what I would need. I spoke with the owner this morning and was given the basic rundown but he definitely sounds willing.

studio space

I know there will be a ton of dead birds and bird shit in there from the pigeons. I know that I’ll be sweating and swearing a lot as I work to clean it up. But imagine. Floor to ceiling windows, incredible light and warehouse sized space! I’m excited. It makes me definitely feel creative again. I'll take photos when I go. I'd better change out of my high heels, too.

Today is a good day.

only when you aren't looking Saturday, June 02, 2007 |

Sweet cherries in my mouth, my fingertips turn a pale pink from the juice. The pits and stalks remind me of the movie, The Witches of Eastwick. The Rolling Stones whine to me about wild horses and Buckley is chasing a green grape around the room.

Spring bank park, today. I'm beginning to wonder if it's normal to want to be unconscious most of the time. In fact, I prefer to be unawake. But I've said that before. Now I just think about it when no one else is looking.

I don't know how some do it, but I'm having a hard time with the day to day motions of living. I was in the darkest place a week ago, I guess I finally turned off the flashlight that I have been carrying. And I sent it to someone else.

Anyway, got the flashlight back in my possession. I know you don't really know what I'm talking about. But I'd rather it be here, than swirling around in my head like a toxic potion. I KNOW I can call anyone I want to talk.

But now, I just feel like a burden and don't want to press those buttons. So, I leave the phone in it's place on the kitchen counter. I'll just stay unconscious until it's time to go back to work.

This really is as good as it gets.

make it so Friday, June 01, 2007 |

My thoughts and energies for the past few days since I got out of the hospital have been directed toward work and the high school politics, manager's meetings, and defense of my character and my competance in my work which I hold such pride in, to the degree it can affect negatively on other areas of my life, as some people know. I don't really want to talk about it, but felt the need to mention it.

Coming home this afternoon, I gently ejected an impromptu houseguest that had appeared back in my life after a long absence. In truth, I already knew what the outcome of this psuedo relationship would be, given that truly in my heart and my mind, I do not have anything there to offer anyone. Just try explaining that to a guy who wants to do nothing but spend all available time with you. So there's the what I call 'empty husk' feeling I have along with the fact that he's been in my personal space the past 2 days, and I truly felt myelf not liking the level of intimacy that forms between people from spending a lot time together.

Which makes me a little sad, because I would like to believe that I some day I will have something to offer and not be turned off by the intimacy factor. I just like my 'alone time', always have, always will, I suppose.

When my younger sister, Wasse had her first child, Riley, my older sister B. was there from day one. B and Riley formed a close bond, and she was one of the most consistent things in his life up until his father decided that we didn't need to see our nephews anymore, about 2 years ago. We have not seen them since, Riley and Danny.

Then today, B was volunteering at a waterpark for environmental solutions for water usage. All kinds of fun stuff for the kids to do with water, etc. School aged children came in droves. Riley was one of them. And he didn't recognise her.

She's devastated. I can't do anything other than call Riley's father and leave another message asking that we be allowed to see the children on a regular basis. And miss having these two little guys smiling up at me when hunting for Easter eggs or splashing in the bath (although I guess they are too old for me to bathe them now). Lost times, moments.

Danny and Riley in my old apartment about 4 years ago.

In other news, take a look at the below link to see how Matthew Good writes about how underneath it all, we're just the same after all.

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