Work In Progress

If I were to start all over again, would I forget everything I've known and start anew?

I can show you my loose tooth as proof

that I am a fighter, not a lover, but that I do love a good fight.

I refuse to kneel before those who tell me I am wrong even though reason screams that I am right.
But don't you ever say that these fists can't become hands that reach out to help you up,

and don't you dare ever say that I've closed my eyes before fear,

because I have seen danger and looked it in the face and not dropped a single tear.
And I learned that I am allowed to laugh, and I am allowed to cry,

but I am not allowed to let pride soar into the sky,

because when it falls down, it will crush your spirit,

and there is nothing you can do about it.

It's vicious, it likes to destroy

a) friends

b) success

c) love

d) all of the above

and I would tell my children that it's not what you think but how you think that matters

And that you can't step over others because you were helped to grow taller

and commitement isn't a prison, it's only being strong enough to trust your own heart.

And trusting isn't a fault, it's learning to fall and fly

and that honesty hurts, but it's better than to tell a crashing lie,

and that it's ok if you're not ok.

And I would tell them that life is not a path, but a maze where you can't go back.

And when you have to dig that tunnel on your own, how easy it is to push others away.

And when you cry for help and no one comes, you'll discover like never before the strength of your own nails, as you dig through the mud that others try to move before you.

And if you ever do come through,

wipe your brow because it's not done, you'll have to keep walking until your legs give out.

And you'll learn that death is inevitable, and how lucky you are to be of those who die,

because how many did not live? How many did you beat to the breath of life and how many did not

even get a chance to race,

and compared to others, you were raised in golden lace.

And when the first tear falls and you get to taste the salt in it,

I hope you know how to dance through the rain, and not wait for it to pass.

I am a fighter, not a lover, but if I could I would tell my children all this so that they don't repeat my mistakes,

so that they can live in a hopefully better world that I helped to make with my own hands for their own sake.  

Writer's block

I've had literally the worst writer's block ever, for the past couple of months. I don't know if you've read my previous blog posts, but the quality has been dropping steadily, until a month ago or so, I haven't been able to write anything at all, even though a bunch of events have taken place in my life. I re read the very last poem that I've written, about a year ago, and it is by far my best one.  I may post it on here at one point.
I'm currently going through a confusing (not difficult, but I'm not sure how to deal with it) ordeal right now, and I've been trying to get my thoughts down on paper. A paragraph just won't cut it, and it's not the type of thing I can write a short story about, since I don't understand what's going on myself. I've been trying to get it down either in a poem or in lyrics, armed with my guitar, but nothing is happening and all I can do is improvise a couple verses that end up boiling down to nothing. I've therefore decided to do a series of writing exercises that have done nothing at all for me. Frustrated that I couldn't find a creative and logical way to summarize my bio notes, I decided to get back in touch with my creative side, as it apparently has helped me to study in the past. I also decided that the "ordeal" afore-mentioned that I'm living is keeping me from concentrating properly, and that writing a poem describing my exact feelings about it would help. So I sat down in the middle of the library, kicked off my shoes (I'm in the hipster library, it's fine, I won't be judged for it) and tried not once, but eight times to start a poem that made sense. Nothing. Therefore, I literally just wrote whatever came to mind, without stopping. I wrote for about two minutes, which is still a lot considering you have to think words for two full minutes, and here's what I came up with:

I have so much to say but I literally cannot get it out

I would love to repeat my successes of the past

but the rhymes are stuck somewhere between

no man's land and the crater that my creativity has

landed in, out of reach, out of bounds. What am I to write

when the words are stuck somewhere in my throat and my fingers

can't find the right keys to press to make a masterpiece,

when my brain is frozen and my thoughts slow as in a fog,

fighting like a parachute-ridden sprint across a grey

landscape, the one they call “writer's block”.

What am I supposed to write when all I want to express is my

frustration as to why I cannot get my feelings out, such as they

tumble out of my brain, out of my heart until they all get stuck

at the threshold of my expressivism, until all I see are

questions in eyes of those that I want to speak to, but cannot reach,

as if communication was the fire to my inner cave man.

I can feel them fighting to get out, but every time I sit down

to right them down other things take over and the words, once so

helpful and friendly, fight me in order to let themselves be hidden once more,

in the prison of a cage of something I can't even define,

when jadis the paper was my escape and the definitions were

subtelties that could help me express one thing over it's synonym's

and only those well written could understand the nuances of

everything that I felt and saw in the world around me.

I've corrected the typos, but apart from that,  I've left the rest untouched, french words and made up words included. I'll be posting the poem that I did write, the one that I like, later on (did I already mention that?) but here is the product of my writer's block. Writing this post is actually much easier than writing the last one (I don't know if you noticed, but it's ridden with typos and it's jerky) and I feel like I'm thinking much clearer, so there's that. 

Veronik

Allienated

Note de l'éditeur: This was really not supposed to become a rant. I started off by thinking I would write about my experience coming from a non-conventional house hold (which is totally an understatement) and getting suddenly thrown into society, but it turned into a development of my mental and psychological issues.
Under no circumstances do I want you to think I suffer or am depressed. It's just how it happened, and I am quite happy with my life :)

I've been sitting in this cafeteria doing homework for the past hour and a half, longingly staring at the Van Houtte twenty feet from me and the wall plus not ten feet away. However, two girls are sitting at the other end of that table and I have to cross the cafeteria to get coffee. And to me, that's worth sitting here, typing on a semi-dark screen so as to save battery on a de-caffeinated brain, surviving on the fumes of freshly brewed coffee. I mean, literally, the only thing that is stopping me is the nagging voice in my head saying that people will judge me if I suddenly get up and move.

When I was younger, I begged my mother to get me out of homeschool and into school. The first day of third grade, armed with a mushroom cut, an ugly sweater (to be fair, I don't remember what I was wearing, but knowing what my wardrobe looked like at that point in my life, I'm fairly sure it was faded jeans and an ugly shirt) and buck teeth, I bravely stood in line, amongst people that already knew each other for four years already. I'd already been to school before, in first grade, at Hélene Gravel. I don't remember much, except for bits and pieces, especially one part where we were standing in line after recess and were expected to sing the school song, which clearly, everyone was expecting me to know, but how could I? I was knew and it was early in the school year. Now that I think of it, it probably wasn't so early in the year, and apparently, I was in gymnastics for a full year, although I can swear I was only there for a bit. I do remember them expecting me to know the full warm up routine and who my teacher was, but I was pretty lost as a young girl.
I blamed it for a long time on my lack of the english but I'm pretty sure I'm just really good at building walls around reality. If I don't want something to exist, I will block it out. I forget the existence of people and events if I need to.

This trick proved useful when I presented in front of classes. Or when I had to talk to strangers, such as the cashier at the store, or someone who smiled at me in the street. Obviously, it's not the perfect solution and it creates more problems than solutions, but at least I can buy things at the store now.

As a little girl, I was confident, helpful, full of joy, intelligent. Slowly, after joining school and not figuring out what a BigMac was until 7th grade (my third grade teacher had mentioned it once in a math class and it had stumped me until some guy who ate McDonald's every day brought three in and everyone was talking about it. I only recently tasted one, and I'm in university), I realized not only did I think everyone but me was stupid and didn't think very much, but also, they thought I was weird. I was always the outsider, not necessarily bullied, but put aside if possible. To be fair, I was pretty much a bitch to everyone, and it only got worst when we got to high school and there were cliques. I eventually made a group of friends who I wasn't so close too until a year or so later, but I always felt put apart.

At one point in eleventh grade, my boss stuck me in a closed booth with some girl from school I absolutely despised, and trust me, it was mutual. I told myself I'd convince her everyone at school was wrong and I was actually not a control freak. For the first two or three weekends, I had to work really hard not to tell her what to do and ask her opinion. Little by little, though, we became good friends and I started trusting her, more than I trusted my best friend. I also slowly started loosening up and realizing not every one was a total idiot. I started talking to people at school, but due to my reputation, I was obviously not well received until stag, where too much alcohol proved that I actually do have a sense of humour hidden somewhere under all the facts accumulated by too much reading.

My grades also dropped. Being logical and friendly all at once was clearly too much, but I'm learning.
Not only did my grades dropped, but so did my confidence. I used to walk into a room like I owned it, strutting and talking loudly, but  the more I smiled when I talked, the meeker I became. I let people start walking all over me, even writing essay outlines for people I barely knew (to be fair, we were a graduating class of 80 people, so when you "barely" knew someone, you knew their full name, their family links, and the general vicinity of their house).

Over the summer, I woke up one morning and it clicked: no one actually cares who you are and what you do. My confidence came back. So did my logical thinking. So did my bad attitude.

When I moved to Montreal, where I got a job with the public and where people are much more vocal about your physical appearance, I became more sweet with people, just as before, in grade 12. I also raked 50% across the board that semester.
This semester, I'm trying to balance it. I'm still trying to figure out how the society works instead of each individual person. The comments are coming back, though. Not exactly bullying, but the fact that in a circle, I'm always standing slightly outside. In a conversation, I'm usually listening, not interjecting. I'm also maybe more sensitive to it, and I take each joke a little bit harder than it's meant.

Every once in a while, the realisation that came over to me this summer hits me in the face. No, no one cares who you. You are literally just another girl in a ponytail, playing a game on your phone, or sitting with your legs crossed. People will brush over you, some thinking about you for a split second, going "She has a pretty face" or "that's an awkward way to sit", but within twenty seconds, maximum, no one will remember you. I know what the girl behind me is wearing because I noticed it when I sat down, but I cannot for the life of me describe her face.
I'm typing this from a plugged computer, right before going to get my coffee before I die. I'm sure I'll do something embarrassing soon enough and go back in my shell, but if I can come out for just a second at a time, I'll be ok.