Posts tagged with "reflection"

the right ones

Before my ther­a­pist starts talk­ing, he has this habit of repeat­ed­ly purs­ing his lips when try­ing to find the right words. It always makes me won­der if I have any habits too, and whether some­one could do a rea­son­able impres­sion of me by mim­ic­k­ing some man­ner­ism I’m unaware of. The only thing I can think of is this par­tic­u­lar way of clear­ing my throat out loud that Bronwen used to tease me about, some­thing I’ve since real­ized that I picked up from my dad.

The ses­sions are get­ting abstract and philo­soph­i­cal, a sign that they’re focus­ing less on details and issues and more on root caus­es. He’s been chal­leng­ing my think­ing, but he always does it in a gen­tle and encour­ag­ing way by let­ting me explore ideas myself, giv­ing me a lit­tle nudge in the right direc­tion if I need it. Most impor­tant­ly, he always makes it clear that I’m the one in con­trol, that I make my own deci­sions, and that he won’t judge me whether he thinks they’re healthy or not.

The thing I’ve learned most recent­ly is that some peo­ple are sim­ply nev­er meant to fill a cer­tain role in your life. Getting upset at them for not being more is like get­ting upset at your cat for not being able to play LittleBigPlanet with you. It’s a hard real­i­ty to come to terms with; not only am I faced with the sud­den real­iza­tion that some peo­ple aren’t who I want or need them to be, it means they’ll like­ly nev­er be that as well.

But that’s the way the world is, and I’m learn­ing to let go, and to not hold every­one to the same stan­dards I hold myself to. The best I can do is con­nect with the right peo­ple, the ones who can be what I need because that’s who they are, not because they’ve tried to change for my sake.

morbid self-attention

My life has tak­en anoth­er turn again. The days can go on with reg­u­lar­i­ty over and over, one day indis­tin­guish­able from the next. A long con­tin­u­ous chain.

—Taxi Driver

Time los­es all mean­ing when you can’t sleep more than two hours in a row, and every­thing else becomes mean­ing­less along with it. Some days I can’t eat, exer­cise, or face the world. All I can do is won­der when it’ll all end, and fight every thought that tells me to give up.

They said the med­ica­tion may make me feel worse before I start feel­ing bet­ter. This is how I dis­cov­er rock bot­tom is always rel­a­tive. A strange lit­tle hole I find myself in, where the days grow brighter with the chang­ing of sea­sons, insom­nia means I nev­er miss a sun­rise or sun­set, and I have noth­ing but free time, but none of it mat­ters.

little victories

Remember when I used to write about every­thing? When there were a mil­lion dis­trac­tions to keep me warm, and all the lyrics cap­tured a moment I nev­er want­ed to for­get. The chang­ing sea­sons, the goose­bumps beneath my fin­gers, the taste of affec­tion; it all lived on in my songs, and I want­ed noth­ing more than to put it all on paper.

I’m try­ing to get there again. Not with dra­mat­ic, sweep­ing changes, but by rebuild­ing brick by brick. I can make it if I focus on putting one foot in front of the oth­er, liv­ing day by day.

a snowy end

So I’ve been cher­ish­ing the lit­tle vic­to­ries, cause they all count. And luck­i­ly, life is full of them.

wrapped in chords

Context. It’s 19°C in the house. I keep an elec­tric heat­ing pad under my hood­ie, the gui­tar is slung around my body, and my head­phones are con­nect­ed to the com­put­er. I’m wrapped in chords, with a win­ter scene per­pet­u­al­ly out­side my win­dow.

I know this won’t last for­ev­er, so I’m indulging in these lit­tle rit­u­als. Trying to enjoy all the lit­tle things I start­ed tak­ing for grant­ed, like car rides at night when the roads are clear and the car is warm. I’ve lost myself in the shuf­fle. I know I need to recen­tre myself, but I’m wait­ing for things to set­tle down first.

There’s so much I don’t say to my friends. Not because I don’t trust them, but because my news nev­er feels impor­tant enough to bring up. It’s stuff they stopped talk­ing about years ago, cause they’ve moved on from this part of their lives. Well I’m still here, hop­ing every­thing’s going to work out in the end.

Magic: The Gathering prize

Martial Coup: Put X 1/1 white Soldier crea­ture tokens onto the bat­tle­field. If X is 5 or more, destroy all oth­er crea­tures, and win a box, a boost­er, a pack of nice lands.

I real­ized that I don’t spend that much time with my core group any­more, but I do hang out with a revolv­ing group of friends. It seems like there’s always anoth­er per­son to catch up with, anoth­er meal to share, anoth­er night of gam­ing with the guys. It’s keep­ing me occu­pied, for which I’m thank­ful late­ly.

Otherwise, I’ve been think­ing a lit­tle bit about the past and a lot about the future. Trying to pic­ture where I’m going to end up, but it’s nev­er some­thing I can fig­ure out.

coming up for air

I did­n’t know I need­ed a week­end like this to feel again. To dance in those lit­tle moments between brush­ing your teeth and get­ting into bed. To pass on the right and speed away to a cho­rus that grows loud­er with every shad­ow cast by every street lamp.

I can’t say it’s been due to any one thing. There’s just so much that seems to be hap­pen­ing late­ly. The days pass faster than ever, and I’m left won­der­ing where life will take me next, cause I’m always sur­prised by every new friend and unex­pect­ed expe­ri­ence.

Wild Boar pizza at Tennessy Willems

Wild boar piz­za at Tennessy Willems, one of the few wood-burn­ing pizze­rias in Ottawa. A com­bi­na­tion of boar sausage, caramelized apple, sage, roast­ed gar­lic, and sharp ched­dar. The sweet­ness of the apple and the savoury char­ac­ter of the sausage make for an inter­est­ing mélange, but the use of ched­dar is what real­ly gives this piz­za a unique taste.

When I’m drown­ing in emo­tion, it feels like I’m per­pet­u­al­ly com­ing out of the water, emp­ty­ing my stale lungs before tak­ing in as much air as I can again.

This is when every breath is beau­ti­ful. A rush of life com­ing at me.