Imposter

You imagined who you could have been with her. You liked that person. You didn’t like her, you liked the idea of her. You liked the idea of you with someone like her. The reality is, you are not that person. You are not that person because you didn’t grow with her to become that person.

You asked all of her favourite things. You asked and nearly fell off your chair as she answered. There was no wrong answer for her. You were so unhappy in your own world that anything she said made you envision a life with those favourite things. She said all the right things without even trying.

You watched her movements - her freedoms with her limbs - a direct reflection of how she operates. You watched her move around, fluttering almost. You imagined a world in which you fit into those movements. But, you don’t. You don’t fit in among those movements because you didn’t grow that way.

When you spoke she heard the things you didn’t say. You pulled you out of you. She asked questions of your soul, awakened something. Conversation was alive and nothing she asked was off limits. With her, you felt yourself wide open and exposed. She evaluated your answers, making mental notes. It appeared to her as if you’d never been challenged, as if you craved the challenge.

The beautiful thing about her is how she makes people feel. In her presence others come alive; if they don’t, she doesn't waste another moment there. You felt yourself come alive next to her. In her presence you saw who you might have been if you grew so tended to, challenged, and free. You took from her light and offered up glimpses of who you could be, who you wanted to be, but not who you are.

She’s a light; flickering and alive.

You - you were just a moth drawn to the flame.

Not Very Good At Math

She told me I wasn’t very good at math.  In a classroom, many years ago, she saw my hair and my dress and sighed, ‘You’re not very good at math, Virginia.”  Eventually she started laughing as she said it.  She played it off as if it were cute, darling, or an okay statement to make about a little girl who has her whole future ahead of her. 

She repeated that statement to me over and over until I accepted it as my truth.  It remained my truth until, at 36 and entirely fed up with the workplace patriarchy, I enrolled back into school.  I needed a switch; craving control over my future and physically sick of feeling undervalued. 

She sat with me in both Linear Algebra and Methods of Calculus, whispering in my ear every time she heard me sigh in frustration.  She sensed my desire to quit.  “You’re not very good at math, V.” I heard her as I jotted notes on the corner of my page.  Except this time, I ignored her and pushed on.  

A world now lays before me.  A world that is not open to girls who are ‘not very good at math.’  I opened that door, leaving her on the outside of this new world.  She’s not welcome in my new world. She’s a lying bitch.

She told me I wasn’t very good at math, but it turns out: 

(a)  she doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about, and 

(b) she’s pretty fucking good at math. 

"You've Changed"

“You’ve changed,” he says through gritted teeth and with such resentment it stings her deeper than he imagined it would.

She hung her head low, insulted and hurt.  Perhaps she is too much: too much a mother, too much a wife, too much a teacher, and not enough of herself. Perhaps the anxiety of all of these roles crashing upon her life at the same time are too much for him to accept. 

“Perhaps this isn’t what he signed up for,” she thinks to herself and apologizes to him profusely.  

She ramps up the role of wife, thinking this is what he needs.  She takes more from his plate and puts it onto hers.  She watches TEDTalks about balance, about motherhood, about being a good wife.  She texts friends asking about what they might have done in the same position.  She tries those things. 

Yet, he’s still not happy.  

Yes, she’s changed.

Her body has given and sustained life.  Her hips have widened. She stares at jeans that she aspires to return to often. Believe me, she knows that she’s changed – she’s reminded of this every time she longs for clothes because they fit her style and not her ever growing belly.  She doesn’t need you to remind her this through your pursed lips and sharp teeth. 

Her friendships have evolved or in some cases, died completely.  These girls saw the change and hated how it inconvenienced them. She’s cried into her pillow at night while you watched TV downstairs.  She’s been low and picked herself up.  She will do this time and time again; each time she does she changes a little. 

 She has laid awake at night worrying about things that may never happen.  She has gone without sleep for months at a time.  She’s been called a bitch, a stress-case, and judged for missing deadlines, appointments, and putting off responsibilities.  She judges herself harder than anyone else could so perhaps you should back off.

She’s created life, a home, and managed her career. The girl who was carefree and hopped a plane, following her passion, now builds her home here.  Her relics from a previous life slowly taken off the walls as the newest family photos are put up in their places.  Each travel souvenir that gets carefully wrapped and packed away reminds her of her previous life. She doesn’t need you to remind her that she’s not that girl anymore.

“You’ve changed,” he says through gritted teeth and with such resentment it lights a fire in her soul.  

“Yes,” she responds. “I’ve changed.  You really should have kept up”

"I'd Fight For You Too"

I was at the end of the long hallway before the question popped into my head. Never before had I questioned the history of your tiny family. How did a single man end up raising his two young daughters full-time?  

I turned, on my heels, and asked you something that I’d never wondered previously.  It had never occurred to me to ask you. I asked simply, “did you have to fight for them?” 

You answered equally as simply, “no.”

With that, satisfied, I turned back and carried on towards my teenage bedroom.  

You called my name.  I remember you calling out my name because your voice cracked.  “Virginia”, you said.  “I would have fought for them.”

I smiled because I believed you.  I turned again, headed towards my room and you followed with “I would fight for you, too.”

I don’t know if I turned back towards you to give you the smile that was deserved but I do remember my teenage heart bursting open. 

Here.  Here is a father who would fight for me.  A man, among men, who is not inconvenienced by the raising of children.  A constant in a world, that seemed at the time, to be ever changing.

I don’t know if I started calling you dadto my friends then or if that came at a later date but inside, inside, everything changed with that comment.  

I’d fight for you too.  

My Mother's Story

I am my mother’s story.

All of the wild, bravery, love, mess, trauma, and excitement.

These pieces of her, each one combined, created my reality.

And that is beautiful.  

She raised me out of her experiences to be kind, courageous, and skeptical.

My mother trusted a few who violated her trust.  She was just a child and was left, unprotected.  She raised me to be aware of intentions, talking often about her trauma, as hard as that was.  She raised me to walk through life, head up and eyes wide open.  My senses were engaged in every setting, never to let that guard down. She spoke with ease about the hurt she’d suffered.  Not only did she teach me to watch out for other’s poor intentions but she taught me to look into the eyes of those who might have been hurt and to be a helper in a world that needs that.  

She left knowing that she deserved more.  She knew her worth and refused to lower her standards. She might not have realized it at the time that she packed her car and drove off with three small babies in tow, but those actions defined my ability to search for love. Because of her strength I married a good-man. I never once, for a moment, questioned my worth of lowered my standards.  She did that. She deserves all of that credit.  

I used to lay in my bed as a teenager and listen to her help other parents who were struggling with their children.  Her creativity in discipline scared the sh*t out of me.  I stayed, for the most part, in line and simply watched and listened to her brilliance as a mother from the comfort of my bed.  Now as a parent myself, I pride myself in my firm but loving hand.  Mine is the same hand my mother showed me.  My mothering is a direct reflection of hers and I couldn’t have asked for better.

She created a home that I could always return to - a small post-war bungalow, remortgaged several times to assist us, her 6 children, with all of our endeavours and failures.    That home created the base in which I ventured out from, never fearing failure.  I have never feared failure.  The home my mother created, the safety and security it provided, meant that I never once feared failing because I knew that I always had a soft place to land.  I still do. That home provided the security for me to always reach for my dreams, and then reach a little further. That home is the one I shut myself into in my darkest days, I couldn’t have imagined being anywhere else.

We were raised out of these experiences to be kind, courageous, and skeptical.

We are all our mothers’ stories.

All of their wild, bravery, mess, trauma, and excitement.

The pieces of the women before us, each one combined, creates our reality.

And that is beautiful.

Happy 65thbirthday, mama. 

 Without you, I am nothing.

About the Artist

I was linked into a group DM.  I was put there by a very clever 23-year-old from Chicago.  She saw through you and wanted to expose you to everyone else. She created something so very powerful - a global alliance of women. We laughed at the beauty of it. We even named the day in your honour. February 16th- the day of the artist. Let us all learn from her, even you. You, too, can learn from this millennial from Chicago. She had your number.  

 I did too.  

 You were kind at first. You saw that I was hurting and had to know what caused me so much pain. You said you had to know why I sat there, every day, and wrote. “What are you writing?” you pried. I told you about her. I cried as I told you my pain. I read to you from my tattered journal in the coffee shop that fall. You were my first new friend after her death, after the death of my daughter. You didn’t look at me with pity because you didn’t know me any other way.  With you, I laughed again. Fuck! - that felt so good. You were at my wedding - gave tickets to the theatre as a gift. Over the years we stayed in touch - texts and coffee. We talked about life and art. It stayed that way until the day that I cut you out. Cold. Unforgiving. Deserved.

 I had your number too.

 I never thought about you again - not at all until this young, beautiful, smart millennial contacted me.  She contacted me and about 20 other women.  You see, you lied to her, manipulated her, treated her like an object.  Wrong girl, I guess.  Oops! When I saw the subject line I was confused.  It read ‘About the Artist.”  “About the Artist?” I thought as I opened it.

 Here’s a few things we all learned about the Artist:

• Firstly, we all learned your age.  You are fifty-three, not forty-five. Fifty-three. I knew that already, but I will tell you, it was news to some of the girls. A quick internet search of your work brought the millennial’s roommates to this fact.  Did you think that nudes were more likely to be acquired if you were 45? 

• We learned a few things about your preferences in the bedroom.  This, I wish I didn’t know but now that I do, I will tell you, women want NONE of the things you listed. NONE! Stop watching so much porn.  Fuck you and your bedroom antics – from all of us!

• You like to show your dick to these women. Why?  Why do you like to show your dick so much?  Put it away.  Send a pic of a literally anything else, anything else would do.  No one wants to see it.  No one! 

• You talk about yourself too much.  Try asking one of the many women you are courting how her day was.  Try it and listen.  I felt that way too, just so we are clear.  Our friendship reached a point where you were just exhausting.  I’d leave coffee and realize that you talked the whole time…about yourself.  

• You sent stock messages to these women.  They put screenshots of it in the chat.  ‘Good Mornings’ and “I’m thinking about you” sent out, multiple times to multiple women. They all thought they were the only one. You were busy, we all determined. Imagine how productive you will be now, now that they have all blocked and deleted you.  

Here’s a few things we also learned about the Artist:

• You’ve got some trauma. Your trauma is serious.  It’s big and I imagine it dictates a good chuck of your past.  I am sorry for your trauma.  You didn’t deserve that.  No one deserves that, ever.  

• You desire love – we all do. But to recieve that kind of love, you have to know how to give it. Work on that and you will be good for someone. 

• You have a good family who loves you.  I didn’t know that you had made the move overseas to be with them, but I truly hope that you are happy.  During our coffee-house days, you spoke so fondly of your sisters, I’m happy to hear that you have them near.

• You’re sweet – we all agreed upon that. You had all these women charmed. You made them all feel special.  Imagine if you took all that energy and put it towards getting to know just one instead the continual attempt to acquiring nudes from multiple.

• You are a talented artist – no one can take that from you.  You seek and appreciate beauty in the world, turning that beauty into inspiration.  You found that beauty in multiple women around the world.

 You found that beauty in a millennial from Chicago, the mother from Estonia, the makeup artist from New York, an interior designer from Toronto, and a blogger from your hometown.  You wanted to take from us all.  Perhaps you should take away a few lessons.  

 First lesson – don’t fuck with the millennial from Chicago.

Kidnapping

I’ll never forget your kindness the night that you kidnapped me. I’ll never forget your sweet face in that small car, smiling at your own brilliance. I willingly got in, checking out the backseat.We drove until neither of us were aware of our location. They can’t find us if we don’t even know where we are, right?

Rewind the story, love.

I cried to you on the phone that day. I had tried to express to others how this year felt so different but it fell on deaf ears. Your ears heard everything I said and knew everything that I needed. I was confused, angered and exhausted. You knew it all - you felt it all. You devised a plan for me.

Rewind the story, love.

I’d been here 8 times prior - you had too. Yet, I’d never felt so fucking angry that I was here again. Why are we here again? How many more times do we need to do this, love? Forever, you respond. Forever. Our small frames were not built for this kind of anger. For 8 years our small frames pushed this anger deep, it was bound to happen.

Rewind the story, love.

I met you and fell instantly in love with how your handled yourself. Here! - here is a woman that I can adore. Here is a woman who understands this new me; this new me that I don’t even understand yet. Here is a safe place to drop my mask. Here is a forever friend.

And then you kidnapped me.

Fast forward, my love.

You took me into the dark, you car loaded with supplies. The rain was pouring and the only light was your cigarette and the headlights. The rattle of the bat on my hands with the first smashed plate hurt. They stung but FUCK! it felt great. I smashed about five before I gave you a turn. There we stood, two bereaved mothers, in the rain, smashing plates and old computers. All that anger had somewhere to go, finally. After nine years without our girls, all that anger was released. We moved from crying to laughter as we proceeded to destroy plate after plate, screen after screen. I tossed you a plate high, “everything happens for a reason,” I said as you took a swing.

Fast forward, my love, way way forward.

I am here for you, as you are for me, forever.

Apparently, forever is how many times we will have to do this and I could never do any of this without you.

24 - Down

We used to have a dictionary on our bedside table and a crossword on the edge of the tub. Over the years our shitty apartments became less shitty - our tubs growing with each apartment upgrade - but these items, the dictionary and the crosswords, remained.

Each night we would reach for the dictionary, taking turns thumbing through the pages and carefully selecting words for the other. Snuggled in, half-dressed, we would share the words that caught our eyes and their respective definitions. It was just a thing we would do; a way we learned each other.

On particularly hard days, you’d climb into the tub with me, holding the daily crossword from the paper in one hand and a chewed pencil in the other. There we would sit, until the water cooled, trying to finish the daily puzzle. Not a lot would be said during those tubs as we were both so focused on solving 24-down. It was just a thing we would do; a way we learned to work together.

Our current tub is glorious in comparison and our king bed is dressed in all white and flanked with a table on each side. We’ve definitely moved up from that shitty basement apartment on 5th and Arbutus. These items, the dictionary and the crosswords, they aren’t there anymore. The dictionary replaced by Google and the daily newspaper no longer delivered to our doorstep. We are better connected than ever, aren’t we, love?

So, love, if you find yourself needing to learn me again. Grab the dictionary from the guest room shelf and climb into my half of the king. Place the dictionary in my hands and ask me to choose three words and read them out loud with their respective definitions. Learn which words grab my eye and listen why. Snuggle me, fuck Google.

And love, if you see me storm through the front door, carrying the weigh of the world upon my shoulders, you should head to the corner store, grab the last copy of the London Free Press and rush home. Slide in behind me in that gloriously warm tub and remind me that we are the best team that ever existed, the weight of the world is never on my shoulders alone. Sit with me, fuck the world.

That Kind of Girl

My son and his female best friend ran up to where her mom and I were standing after the bell rang. Excited, they wanted to know if she could come to our house to play after school. ‘Of course,’ we agreed. Excited, she ran off, my son watching her. Then he turned to her mom and said, “You know why I like her so much? Because she’s so crazy that she makes life fun.”

She’s so crazy that she makes life fun.

That kind of girl is my kind of girl.

Let us all choose to have more of those kinds of girls in our lives:

Girls that make life fun.

Girls that laugh from their bellies.

Girls that run wild in nature, unafraid of spiders, mud, and the unknown.

Girls that skinny-dip in open bodies of water.

Girls that are hot-tempered because they are passionate.

Girls that pop-over, uncaring of the social norms to ‘call first.’

Girls that tell a story that captivates the room.

Girls that swing high and jump from the top.

Girls that break bones and then rock the cast.

Girls that stand, front-row at the concert, and sing along on the top of their lungs.

Girls that book flights, leave, and do it alone.

Girls that set goals only to crush them.

Girls that make life fun.

I wanted to grab him, kiss him, and tell him to never let that standard go. Never. Because once you have that kind of girl in your life:

She’ll love you without reserve.

She’ll tell a story or joke that will bring you to tears.

She’ll explore with you, hold a caterpillar and marvel at it’s beauty.

She’ll have you naked and swimming with her before you can argue.

She’ll demand respect because she knows she deserves it.

She’ll make you soup when you’re sick.

She’ll open your eyes to the world and show you how she sees it.

She’ll cover your eyes and ask that you follow her.

She’ll get up, brush herself off, time and time again.

She’ll grab your hand and pull you in.

She’ll be spontaneous but calculating her her actions.

She’ll encourage you, no matter how lofty your goals.

She’ll create fun where no fun otherwise exists.

Here’s the thing, son:

That kind of girl will be an amazing mother.

That kind of girl will love those babies wildly.

That kind of girl will raise females who make life fun.

and little men who appreciate that kind of girl.

The Boy's Sister

I met a boy once, in Thailand, and we seemed cosmically destined to be in each others lives. He’s no longer in my life. I choose different. I went left - left him standing on a boarder, and choose to create this most amazing life that I currently have. I tell you this because that cosmic destiny may confuse you sometimes. Sometimes, you may not fully understand a person’s importance in your life, their meaning, until years or decades later.

This boy, he has a sister.

This. This is about her.

I met her young. She was filled with life - beautiful and ready to explore the world. She said she needed a nudge, advice, and reassurance that this path she wanted to take was a good one. She didn’t need any of that though. She needed to enter my life (and me into hers) and this was the universe setting up this beautiful sisterhood.

We had dinner, once. I marvelled at her courage, her intelligent questions, her excitement to enter a world that I was just exiting. She asked questions about relationships, the strain this might put on them. I never once sheltered her from the reality of the world she wanted to embark on. People, they come and go, and some will board your flight with you. He boarded the flight with her. I smiled because, I too, had loves follow me. These men, they see a woman who is confident, sure, and alive and they want to attach to that. He attached to that. It’s a beautiful thing.

My world shifted and I grew into my new roles, she a few years behind. I received texts from her continually, praising me for my position in life and how well I was managing my tiny humans. I don’t know if she knows how much those texts over the years meant to me - mean to me. Her support, I could never define. Then, it was my turn. My turn to praise her for her skills at motherhood. To send texts about what am amazing mother she is, to send encouragement and support during hard nights. I like to believe that I was there for her during some really hard times.

Now, I sit, miles away from the hug I’d like to give her. She is there and I am here. I want to run to her, wrap my sisterly arms around her and care for her - force her to eat and sleep. Her world is being ripped open and I sit, sideline to it, and offer my support. She’s strong though. We all are when we have no choice. Strength is our beauty, as women. Others are attracted to it, as if pulled in by some magnetic force. I have seen it. I have felt it. She’s got it - pure strength - and it will bode well for her.

So, here I sit, miles away and write. Write about that old love and how I realize he was just the vehicle for this bond I share with her, his sister. I maintain, we were put in each other’s life for a very specific reason. I am and always will be a support for her, even if it’s from miles away.

Write, Burn, Repeat

This website is a culmination of a few things:

• place for me to organize my thoughts, experiences, and opinions

• to collect the people, places, and things that have impacted my world

• a venture into a world so foreign to me that I shake just thinking about it,

• and lastly, a defiance to the fear of putting my writing into the world

Organization is my jam. It’s what has driven me and saved me. When my world spins, I put everything in it’s place. The items in my house mean nothing to me in a purging rage, save a select few items I have attached intense meaning to. Yet my thoughts, my characters, my work is scattered. On this site they will all find a home.

I have collected stories, people, and experiences for the better part of 37 years and some of these moments, these characters and their defining features, need to be resurrected. I find myself, washing dishes, driving children to lessons, or grocery shopping (I know, my life is so luxurious) and these moments and characters will crop up in my mind. These characters will visit, almost begging to be saved from my subconscious. I vow to, over time, resurrect each and every one to them: an old boss and his habit of picking at the top of his scalp; a body guard from Syria, his kind eyes and gentle ways; the elevator attendant from the best hostel in Egypt; the man who broke into my bungalow in Thailand, only able to grunt as he got caught watching me sleep; a dynamic friendship of women who love each other without reserve; an old friend who misuses the past tense of see, another who can’t get it together despite extensive support. They will all emerge, over time. Stay with me and give me time.

I am in the process of shifting my world, my mindset, into a new place. I refuse to retire having followed policies that make no sense and blindly ignoring this voice inside that tells me to reach - reach for more. So, here I am, reaching, stretching outside of my comfort zone and putting faith into no one but myself. Is it exhausting? Absolutely! Is the path clear? Nope. But everyday I wake up driven and determined and for now, I guess, that’s all I need. As I learn and grow, my writing will change, this site will change. I’ve got plans and if you want to, please come along for the ride. It’s always a good time.

I have titled this site write burn repeat because I have, for the greater part of my life, deleted almost everything I have written. This site, first and foremost, is in defiance to that history. I refuse to delete. I refuse to be apologetic for my work. This small act, this defiance if you will, spans larger than my work or this site. I am unapologetically me - always have been and always will be. Most people enjoy that. Most people enjoy that I will tell them how I see it. My views, however strong on a subject have grown and shaped over time, true. With every experience I collect and every person who impacts my world I take from it/them and grow. What has not changed is my delivery. My delivery is typically accompanied with some sort of smart-assed comment or analogy in which you can’t understand until it’s concluded. “Stay with me,” I say, as I work it out not only for you, but for me too. Stay with me, I implore you. Stay with me, and most do.

Stay with me.