“Certainly, an ethical and evolved life entails a whole lot of doing things one doesn’t particularly want to do and not doing things one very much does, regardless of gender. But an ethical and evolved life also entails telling the truth about oneself and living out that truth.” –  Cheryl Strayed  


J’ai l’impression d’une tornade emportant toute notre humanité, nos humilités, nos vulnérabilités, nos pudeurs altruistes, le sens même de ce qu’est être une personne… Un gros tas de poussières virevoltant parmi les ruines de nos constructions, soufflant le fin dessein d’un idéal humain, détruisant ces routes délicates qui nous amenaient vers l’autre.

Dans l’après, les vestiges d’une structure qui n’aura tenu que faiblement, là où la vanité est devenue monnaie d’échange dans le commerce des places disponibles. Nous construirons un nouveau Stonehenge.

With a little effort

With a little effort, I think I could even see poetry in things like I used to.

J’avais des rêves, ce que je ne m’étais pas permis pendant des années. Pour finalement les voir étouffés, écrasés, effacés, oubliés.


Dreams and poetry. Pour adoucir les aspérités, éclairer les noirceurs de mon esprit.

Like a tall glass of cool water on a sad day.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m1iVA5JuLVw?rel=0&w=480&h=360]

Lots of fucks and no more to give

Yeah, we all need someone we can bleed on
Yeah, and if you want it, baby, well you can bleed on me
Yeah, we all need someone we can bleed on
Yeah, yeah, and if you want it, baby, why don’cha bleed on me
All over



Come on. Try me. Fuckhead. (A person of shitty intelligence and/or judgment)

Fuck you and your silences. Fuck you and stupid and jealous girlfriend. Fuck you and your infinite interest in yourself.

But mostly, fuck me and my stupid hope that there is good in everyone. That within your heart lies empathy. Understanding. Sensibility. Friendship.


Isn’t there anyone, ANYONE, who is not afraid of me? Please tell me, I’d love to know. I won’t change I know that much. But surely to know would make things easier no? I don’t know. I just know this fact, this thing. I scare. I’m sorry. No I’m not. I’m mostly sorry for knowing but not being able to not do it. And yet, I can be so nice, so sweet… If you only knew.

But I will never show you as long as you’re being such an asshole.

And that goes for everyone that has let me down. I will remember you. I’ m done with forgiving. Understanding. Being sensible.

This is a shitty post I know. I’m sorry to all the nice people/friends that come across it. But if the shoe fits, put it on and run the fuck out of here. I’m done with you*.

*Just to make sure, I’ll let you know in person too. Because that’s what I do/am.


Carl Jung has got something on me

This one had this theory that I was insane. That I was defective. That something in my head did not work properly. And because of that I was driving him insane. My reaction whenever he brought it up ranged from indifference to anger, sometimes dancing on uncertainty when I was feeling more vulnerable. Indifference when I though he was just trying to get to me, anger when he was clearly trying to hurt me. Because serioulsy, you want to hurt me, go for my brain, it’s a sure shot.

This other one felt intimidated to the point of exploding rages and long rants about how I played with his head, about how I was placating him with words to confuse and belittle him and how I was a calculating heartless cunt. You can add that to the list. Brain, heart. I’m down for the count.

That one never uttered the words, but I know the signs now. I’ll fade away before anything comes out of his mouth. Some might call it retreat. I call it survival.


I have always felt different in my head. All my life, from my fist memories, I always new my difference was not only in my personality, but that it went much further. It can be a heavy burden. There are times I feel trapped, I feel like a prisoner of my thoughts. But of course I can’t help thinking the way I do. I considered therapy often (when it was not heavily suggested to me by one of the hims), but each time I tried, I felt like it was such a fucking waste of time I never went further than one session on a few occasions. I know this will sound incredibly pretentious, but fuck it, I’ll say it. I never felt they would understand me. The feeling I got after that one hour shitchat was one of extreme loneliness and isolation.

Something strange and extraordinary happened the other day. Through an exchange on my friend Dave’s Facebook wall about introverts and extroverts, a friend suggested we did a little personality test. I KNOW. SHUT UP for a minute ok? Listen. I know it sounds stupid, futile, childish, I don’t care. Because for the very first time in my life, I found something, some kind of explanation that made sense. I did the test and was amused by the results. So I read a little further about what they meant. And this is what happened, this is what I learned:

INTPs are one of the rarest of personality types, only accounting for about 3–5% of the population.

And this, this is what gave me the greatest shock, for I never understood this about myself, but only felt the consequences of the mechanics of my brain:

INTPs are driven to understand a discussion from all relevant angles. Their impatience with seemingly indefensible ideas can make them particularly devastating at debate. When INTPs feel insulted, they may respond with sudden, cutting criticism. After such an incident, INTPs are likely to be as bewildered as the recipient. They have broken the rules of debate and exposed their raw emotions. To INTPs, this is the crux of the problem: improperly handled emotions, INTPs believe, can only harm. While INTPs experience emotions as an important part of their internal lives, and sometimes share their emotions with others, INTPs nevertheless believe that emotions must not play a role in logical discussions, or be expressed in a way that would put themselves at disadvantage.

I’m not saying that a 10 minute personality test and a wiki page changed my life. But somehow, since that night, I’ve felt a freedom in my thought process, like a weight was lifted, of maybe more accurately a veil of some kind. If that test was wrong so be it. I can live with that. The only thing that matters really, is that I can now articulate, in thought, my reactions and interactions. I understand where it comes from. I’ll never be anything else than what I am. It might not validate everything about me, but it sure helps.

The just because flowers

Something happened today. A girl at the office got flowers delivered to her from her boyfriend. It wasn’t her birthday. It was just because. It got to me in a way I can’t explain. I’ve seen it happen many times before. It never left a dent. Maybe it’s my hormones, maybe it’s the accumulated stress of moving. Maybe I was just ripe for that kind of reaction. In any case, when I saw her face, and when I saw her mouth, her lips move to say “No, no birthday, no celebration. Just because.” I smiled, I moved on, I sat down. I felt a prodding, a push. And I let it in. Twenty five years, two relationships and I received flowers once. Never got breakfast in bed, no surprise parties, no romantic weekends, no candlelit dinners, nothing ever just because. I remember the two times I was taken to a restaurant where the bill came over a hundred dollars. It started out as “Oh, he’s not the romantic type” and ended as “Oh, I’m not the romantic type. I don’t like flowers. They’re expensive, they stink then they die.” And it’s true (that they die). Another constant absentee was compliments. “You’re beautiful” while wearing sex shop rags and high heels do not count. At 35, in my second relationship, I held hands and kissed in public for the first time in my life. And as much as I enjoyed it, it opened a crack that only grew through the years. I was never abused, merely neglected. I don’t cry for what is gone now, but for what I never had. I know that these things would not have made me happier in the long run. I know that things would have gone the way they have eventually. It’s the weight of telling myself that I got what I deserved, and that I did not deserve more than what I got that I cannot, will not bear anymore. I am a just because type of girl. Being a just because person is great, making people happy is a wonderful feeling. But when I start to question whether I am a just because girl because I wanted to be loved, it’s stirring things deep inside, it’s making me feel even guiltier. Of my passiveness, of my own neglect. Blaming others is hard for me, but it’s getting too heavy on my shoulders now. I’ve got to let this go, acknowledge where I’m at and let time do its work. I get flowers for myself now. I travel to places I’ve always wanted to travel. Slowly but surely I’m letting myself being kind to myself. My kindness will not be my weakness, not anymore. Please, please… be kind to the ones you love.

12 vers 0

Sometimes I just feel invisible. Nonexistant. Pas là. Je me coupe du monde, du peu qui m’entoure. Je n’existe plus.

Dans une bulle qu’est mon appart en champs de bataille pré-déménagement (ce qui entraine de forts moments d’angoisse et de procrastination).

Je ne me sens pas prête. Pas capable. Toute seule. Pas seule dans le sens de lonely, mais dans le sens de alone. Trop souvent, je me sens juste pas apte à faire toutes ces choses d’adulte.

Pas apte. Pas envie. Les deux se mélangent et pendant que ça fait le party dans mon cerveau (c’est récurent, vraiment, je ne suis que rarement invitée dans ces soirées) je capote, je fais autre chose, rien de bon. Y a des cartons à moitié remplis un peu partout, des brasses de lavage à plier qui s’accumulent, le frigidaire et la dépense à vider, j’hyperventile, je mets de la musique et je fais autre chose.

I just can’t wait to be there. Settle in. Move on. Not think about the adult things I can’t handle but have to do. They’ll be done by then. Ma poitrine se serre, j’angoisse beaucoup trop facilement, mais j’y peux rien, et ça me paralyse. Le bordel ici est incroyable, j’en vois pas le bout.

Il me reste 12 jours.

She's not there

You would think that after eleven years I’d be over the worst of it. I would anyways. It’s some kind of freak phenomenon where I mourn in reverse. I was so strong when she died, I don’t think I cried that much after that day. And I have been able to recall, to share, without breaking down for years. But these days… I don’t know. It’s like… Like she’s here, trying to tell me something I worked hard to forget. I want to hear her voice. I hear her voice. I want her to be here with me, being the mom she never really was, but that I so desperately needed. Need. I’ve been teased before about my liking older men, something about me looking for a father figure. That might’ve been true a long time ago, but lately I have experienced emotions that led to thoughts I never let myself explore further. Time, life and compromise has helped my dad and I mend our relationship. I don’t know if  that would’ve happened with her. I’m not killing myself with the regrets, the what-ifs, I’m simply overwhelmed by an immense sense of loss, a loneliness that is completely new, unknown in its nature, its provenance. Why now? Why does she come up in conversation, why do I stumble upon one of her notebooks while going through my own, why do I see her reflection when I look at mine? I’ve fought so hard not to be like her, not to be her. The fears are gone, I am me, completely. And I wonder if it’s because of that that she’s making this sudden come back. I’ve let a lot of guards down, I’ve opened up, secure in who I am, who I’ve become. Not so far removed from the woman she could have been had she chosen a few different paths maybe. But overall… I could turn this over this way and that way, pry open the memory chest, cry over old birthday cards, but it won’t do any good. I don’t understand why it’s happening now, or how long it will last. But I guess I just miss having a mom. And everything that comes with it.

fr/en [miettes #2]

Certains trouvent peut-être le bilinguisme ici un peu déroutant, ou dérangeant… mais c’est comme ça dans ma tête. Parfois même en pleine phrase, ça change. Je vous évite une partie de chaos quand même.


It’s not like we didn’t know this. Like we’ve never read it anywhere or didn’t feel it at some point or another. But it’s true. We’re all walking wounds, at different stages of healing. Some so fresh it hasn’t started yet. But it will.


“You don’t ask a lot of questions”
“Maybe I don’t need a lot of answers.”


I’m walking amongst (I LOVE that word. The way it makes your mouth, your tongue work. Say it, say it out loud, feel that?) fortresses filled with treasures and secrets. Just being able to peek through the windows is cool. I don’t feel compelled to break in, tear down the doors, know. Being aware is enough. They’re everywhere. And they’re beautiful.


Je viens de terminer le journal d’Eleanor Coppola, écrit pendant le tournage d’Apocalypse Now. Une traduction pénible, une lecture pénible, mais néanmoins intéressante. Et puis soudain, vers la fin, crise conjugale. Infidélités.

Une phrase, et puis là, dans le wagon de métro, le mal de ventre, la tristesse. La compréhension immédiate de ces sentiments écrits il y a déjà plus de trente ans. T’as beau te faire à croire que t’es guérie, qu’il faut beau, que la vie t’es si bonne ces derniers temps que c’en est même un peu suspect. La douleur est maintenant plus superficielle, mais la réalité de ces blessures elle, ne l’est pas. Je ne sais pas ce que ça veut dire. Je ne sais pas si je veux m’attarder vraiment à ça. Est-ce que mon coeur est irrémédiablement endommagé ou bien je mêle trop de choses ensemble?

Le plus difficile c’est de cesser de porter toute la responsabilité des sentiments des autres, de leurs gestes, sur mes épaules. D’arrêter de me voir comme un monstre, moins qu’une femme. De vivre les rejets comme autant de constats que je suis juste inadéquate, pas assez.

Mais avec le temps j’apprends aussi, surtout peut-être, à m’accepter. Accepter tout, en entier. Je sais aujourd’hui que je ne suis pas cassée. Que je n’ai pas à être réparée. Que de rechercher l’approbation des autres ce n’est qu’une façon d’éviter d’être ce que l’on est vraiment.


I don’t use the “The well” category as much as I used to here. It’s a good thing I guess. But sometimes I miss being able to reach in it and write about it. Not that I have lost all sense of depth, but I’m frightened by the ease with which I can move away from it. I’m torn between relief and shame.


[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZajltcEBncQ?rel=0]


PS: Je déménage à Verdun le 1er juillet. J’ai changé d’idée, et je l’assume pleinement! Je reviens (presque, bon, parce que Verdun, Montréal, tsé) dans ma ville natale. Je suis heureuse. Point.

PPS: Mon beau Stéphane, je ne t’oublie pas! J’ai jamais été super bonne à la tag, je cours pas vite. Mais ça s’en vient.

PPPS: I’ve started selling stuff on ebay and I have no life left whatsoever.


I think I know why it doesn’t work for me. the [things].

I want it to be as messed up and confused as it is in my head, inside, deep in there where it doesn’t matter to anyone but me. where I know where every[thing] is, where I can pick up some[thing] I left in a corner years ago, gathering dust, losing importance, until the moment I need it.

when I try to make sense of [things], it just does not fit anywhere in my mess. the boxes, those neat little boxes we’re supposed to fill diligently, store properly, in an organized, alphabetized way. classified. they just don’t fit. on top of a pile of my own important stuff they sit, not in the least securely, ready to fall, ready to explode on the floor and expose their nonsensical content to

it doesn’t work like that up here, in here. anybody who has set foot inside knows.
it doesn’t work like that
[things][exploded boxes]