My mother collects my conformities like tokens.
She puts them in her purse to tell her friends about later.
Things like how I finally got a real boyfriend,
or that I bought a pair of dress pants from a real store.
I used to wish she cared more about my non-conformities,
could take pride in my ability to shop
like the queen of second hand clothing
and my ability to be so independent, taking apart the pipes under the bathroom sink alone.
But then I am just happy we are getting along.
Upon reflection of confrontation, I realize it makes me want to run and hide, behind a curtain of my own paralyzing self-doubt.
Not wanting to be too loud or unladylike, makes me question the feminist mindset of my mother’s generation and what percentage it ran at.
Although I suppose it was harder to gain resources in the early 1980’s, more straight lines, less Internet blog think pieces.
Nowhere to get your news but the local paper, which once ran a piece on my three legged dog, and last month’s issue of Reader’s Digest passed down from a neighbourhood friend.
I think about my family’s brains often, the way the wheels turn and the strange things that make them upset. I suppose my own brain possess the almost parallel desire to be unreasonably unobtrusive.
The amount of times I wrote opinion pieces to both the local paper and Reader’s Digest seem unreasonable as well.
I suppose I am much bolder on paper.
Ugly polyester blouses and generic black pants, a bit too much shadow around the eye.
Some silently judging or others not so silently, clicking their tongues in disapproval.
Wishing to be back as the queens of their own classrooms, if they are not going to learn anything they agree with.
Each day is a day you can change.
They say. The memes, the Twitter re-tweeters, the fashion and fitness magazines. The painting with the quote on top.
Change is difficult when most change requires money, or as I think about it, almost all things require money. Real change means to the masses new clothes and a gym membership. A trip to find yourself. A new degree.
I want to change and I am not happy.
I feel like I am drowning in a puddle of despair but I can’t tell anyone that because their happiness is sparking and no one wants to hear about the bad. It might drown the sparkle..
I might just need a good nights sleep and tomorrow will look better.
But for now? Now I am pushing my nails in my wrists to leave marks to remind me that I am real.
May I present the list of Damn I am CrazyforCanLit and People are Crazy
1. Thirteen Shells
3. Still Mine
4. True Arab Love
5. The Most Heartless Town in Canada
6. We’re All in this Together
7. I am What I am Because of What you are
8. Bad Things Happen
10. This Will be My Ruin
Read them and weep, people be creeps! Ha.
Being stuck in a place where I am not satisfied is like always burning a fire, inside your own throat, allowing the ashes to scatter down to your heart.
Always constantly comparing yourself to others is like dark poison that you are injecting into your own brain.
You are stabbing yourself in the back.
You are pinching your own nerves.
You are the one pushing yourself off the cloud.
But it never really helps,telling myself this,
picking scabs has always been a beloved passion.
I have always, always been a jealous person.
I often give myself a bad case of the why you,
why not me,
why am I so unlucky.
I feel down, down, down on myself.
Slipping deeper into the hole.
People who can afford LuLuLemon pants,
and blow money on heat, just using as much heat as they want.
Someone slap me.
Or let Drake date me,
so I can stop feeling sorry for myself,
and afford the rich things.