Once upon a time…

[Wed, Dec 27, 2023, 14:19]

As a child, there were two fairy tales that I had an unhealthy obsession with: Sleeping Beauty, and the Princess and the Pea.

My fascination with the latter may make sense to those who are familiar with the fable. A mattress fort that is 20 stories tall, illustrated in bright colours no less? I never stood a chance.    

The story was intriguing enough — the notion that one's true worth could be validated by something as seemingly simple, yet complex, as the sensation of a pea mushed under twenty mattresses. A part of me found this concept to be wildly intriguing – intriguing enough to request over a hundred retellings. (I may be exaggerating, but you get the point, right?)

And then there was Sleeping Beauty.

The story told to me was the Brothers’ Grimm adaptation titled ‘Briar Rose,’ this version is more gritty, slightly darker – and below you’ll find the passage that I asked my parents to repeat to me every night:

After the princess fell into a deep sleep, a dense thicket of thorns grew around the castle. Over the years, the thorns became so thick and impassable that any prince who attempted to reach the castle found himself stuck.

Until one day, a powerful prince with his mighty sword successfully trudged through the thorny maze (I always visualised the maze as more of an intricate labyrinth, with hues of burgundy and brown – hunched below gray overcast skies).

Emerging from the thicket, led by arms adorned with scars from the battle – our prince makes his way towards the castle...

That was it, that was the part.

I wasn’t particularly curious about the kiss that finally awoke our princess like a revolting alarm clock. 

It was the labyrinth, and the thorns that intrigued me – visualising these together soothed a part of my brain – and so I did, every single night.

Stories are powerful.

There are the stories we tell ourselves, the stories we are told, and perhaps the most interesting – the stories we create. You may be wondering what the difference is between telling yourself a story and creating a story – I’ll leave that with you, I know you can figure it out.

Enough of my silly riddles, though. How’re you?

Odd question, all things considered – I’ll start. 

I’ve missed you.

I’ve missed creating spaces between the words for you.

I’ve missed your clever inferences.

I’ve missed our shared vulnerabilities, our subtle hushed understanding.

It’s been too long.

It’s been so long, in fact – that I hardly recognise my own voice.

And so, I’ll hand these words over to you – in the hopes that you’ll recognise it instead.

Let’s begin with an origin story…

[Wed, Dec 27, 2021, 10:00]

A few days ago, I woke up thinking of a dreary summer morning from 2007 (one of my -least– favourite years, by the way).

There I was, all of 12 years old – sitting in the middle of homeroom: hot glue gun in one hand, popsicle sticks in the other (worth mentioning that I ultimately did not pass the assignment I had been working so diligently on).

I barely noticed the sensation of something lodging itself onto the back of my head. It often takes me a while to register significant moments in my life, especially when they unfold in split seconds rather than gradually, over time.

Cautiously, my fingers began treading through thick locks of hair to determine the source of my pain, it didn’t take long before they latched onto something…Something sticky…And gooey, and just gross.  

Gum, folks.

It was a nauseatingly bright pink wad of chewed gum.

The funniest part of this story isn’t that some silly boy in the back seventh-grade homeroom decided to spitball a piece of gum into my hair.

The funniest part of this story is that it took me nearly an hour to -finally- tell my homeroom teacher what had happened.

That’s right: in 2007, I sat petrified in the front of my homeroom class for an hour, with a hot glue gun in one hand, popsicle sticks in the other – and a giant piece of gum lodged on the back of my head.

Gross, right?

When I finally processed what had occurred, and notified my teacher, she immediately redirected the tiny perpetrator and I to the principal’s office.

Let’s name this boy…Eedijot, just out of respect for his confidentiality.

As Eedijot and I began our walk towards his impending doom, my brain was, of course, preoccupied by the logistics of this whole thing: were they going to whack the gum out of my hair? Would I have to spend the rest of seventh grade with a bald spot on my head? If going bald was the only option, then did I have a smooth enough surface to work with?

My train of thought was derailed by the noises of Eedijot whimpering and begging besides me. When I finally turned to face all 4”2 of him, I saw something I hadn’t seen in Eedijot before: fear, pure frantic fear.

“Please don’t tell them what happened, please!” He begged, rubbing his palms together like a rabid raccoon. A part of me wondered if Eedijot realised that, regardless of what I shared or omitted: the damage had already been done.

I became curious regarding Eedijot’s parents, and if they were brutal or violent. I found myself dissecting Eedijot’s life trajectory (all 12 years of it) – I questioned what the root cause of his sudden fear may be; after all, Eedijot hadn’t been afraid when he first decided to pick up that straw, he had been quite bold…Brave even.

What did he think was going to happen after the fact, I wondered – or did such people exist for whom the impact of their intent simply did not matter until it was far too late? All these questions kept swirling around in my head on our walk to the principal’s office. Any reasonable 12-year old’s only thought in a situation such as this ought to be:

“Good riddance nitwit.”

But that simply wasn’t the case – this was: we finally arrived at the principal’s office; and faculty had to threaten me with a suspension for me to finally snitch on Eedijot.

You see, the guilt Eedijot managed to leverage over me was powerful – but ultimately, not more powerful than my fear of being perceived as a disappointment, or, God forbid, unworthy.

You may be tempted to ask, “unworthy of what?”

And that’s truly the million-dollar question, one I’m afraid I will have to plead the fifth on (but you’re not even from the States! Spare me).

Isn’t that the beauty of these journal entries, though? I hint, you infer – so it goes.

These days, I often find myself waking up and reminiscing over nonsensical moments from my past – much like this one. What interests me more than these memories is the ever-present question of why certain moments stick, while others don’t (pun intended).

The narratives we build out for ourselves in our heads can often influence our reality, we’re all the main characters in our stories, after all.  

Perhaps, what I considered to be my “I’m not like other 12-year-olds” moment, was, for Eedijot, his vigilante / anti-hero coming of age origin story.

I think about all your origin stories, and I think about them often.

Onto charmers and dandies...

[Mon, April 4, 2022, 18:00]

At 24, I sat fidgeting in a rather uncomfortable salon chair, while a hair stylist I hadn’t met before ran her clunky fingers through my scalp. I had rushed to this salon after work, with a tight deadline before me, and a haircut long overdue. I wasn’t looking for anything fancy, really, just something convenient and quick.

In a moment of unanticipated vulnerability, I turned to face the stranger with her claws in my hair and asked her to diagnose what was wrong with it. I should pause here to note that this may have been one of the silliest asks of my past, and I’ve had -plenty-. The woman looked perplexed, as she pointedly noted: “the middle of your hair is completely uneven from the rest.”

To this I countered back:

“Yes, but that’s not what I asked. I don’t want it to -look– even or full, I want it to be even and full, I’ve been struggling with hair loss, as you can see…”

The hairstylist hesitated for a moment, and then she gave me a piece of advice that I really wish she hadn’t – mostly because I had heard it before, several times, from countless other strangers: 

“Well, you know dear, some people just aren’t born with hair that’s meant to grow long, you may always have to keep it short...”

Another hair stylist who had been eavesdropping in the background decided to chime in then, with words of sage wisdom that may only be found in environments that are at least 60 % commission based

“Yes but, you just have to believe – if you believe every day that you have thick hair then thick hair will grow.”

I wish I could say that I rolled my eyes at this piece of wishy-washy advice and called it a day – but I was a flustered twenty-something under a lot of stress, and admittedly, I was willing to believe anything I needed to if it meant getting the job done.

I willed myself to believe that I had thick hair in the coming weeks, during showers – where I lathered in overpriced shampoo I had purchased from the salon. I willed myself to believe at dinner, and as I fell asleep.

Do you know what magically happened?

Absolutely nothing.

In fact, I think I lost more hair, it was glorious (from a comedic perspective) and devastating (from, you know, a personal perspective).

Suffice it to say, faith without action is a terrible way to lead your life.

When I finally got my blood work done the following year, my doctor caught something that should’ve been flagged months in advance, and I ultimately ended up paying for it in my own way.

Spoiler alert: I am quite capable of growing healthy, shiny, and yes…Long hair.

I know what you’re thinking: what’s with the strange hair obsession?  

Valid question.

I find it fascinating how something as insignificant as hair can mark otherwise significant passages of time.

After all, hair doesn’t grow (dramatically) overnight – it can take months, and for some – years, before getting anywhere.

We often forget to cut our hair, and by the time we remember, we are inadvertently brought back to the last time we cut it – and everything that occurred in the interim.

And isn’t that a fascinating thought to get lost in?

All’s Well that Ends Well…

[Thursday, Dec 22, 2022, 10:00]

It’s tempting for me to classify Eedijot as my personal Disney villain. It’s equally tempting to label my old hair stylist an opportunistic leech – but, as someone who once threw her best friends’ things off the seventh-floor balcony (just for kicks, I was six), and as the self-declared pied piper of job opportunities, I can’t bring myself to do that without hating just a little bit of who I am, and who I have been in the process.

Anger is so much more fun when you lack a certain level of self-awareness, I am envious of those that live in blissful ignorance. At times, I regret leaving the cave – and often, I find myself wistful for a time when I was handcuffed to the walls inside, at ease with the shadows on the wall, at ease with my perception of reality.

These days, the glaring light from the sun hurts my feelings.

Some of us aren’t built to live our lives in the cave, though. This realization is as heavy as it is liberating – while freedom may be at the tips of our fingers, so too is the loneliness. Some of your closest allies may hiss at you if you so much as try to coax them out.

So, there you find yourself, alone once again, venturing through the unknown.

I’ve learned a lot about myself since I last wrote to you. I don’t really know what to do with all of it – by it, I mean all this knowledge (some useful, some incredibly useless).

Do I take the wisdom of my twenties and pound it into a dough? Do I create a pizza, slightly burnt – topped with disbelief, joy, anger, and limitless grief? What shall I do with myself while I wait for your first bite? Will you burn the roof of your mouth recklessly, impatient to taste my pain? Or will you savor the moment – absorbing my nerves as though they were your own, delicately cutting into my thoughts with a fork and a knife?

Will I be just another pizza joint, or one of your favourites?

Who knows?

I certainly don’t, I never do.

Here’s what I do know: so long as there’s a story in my system, and hunger in your stomach – this space will continue to exist (in the form of cryptic captions, an unreliable narrator, and occasional journal entries).

As I reach the crux of my twenties – here’s my advice to those just stumbling in:

I hope that you... 

-       Have the audacity to do things: things you’re unqualified for, things you’re frightened of – especially things you’re frightened of. The world is a stage, and some of us are simply better actors than others. You will learn by trial and error, you will become a better actor, the world will forget who you thought you were, and be satiated by whoever the hell you want to be (exceptions apply, please don’t jump off a roof and attempt to fly).

-       Are protective of your privacy. I know this is ironic coming from me – I mean just look at this space – but believe it or not, I keep some of my most intimate experiences close to my chest. When my memory fades, so will they, and there’s great comfort in knowing that something finite exists in a world dedicated to preserving so much more than it ought to.

-       Remove excess: in the form of friendships, and any other ships.

-       Remain hospitable to your anger.

-       Start creating parameters around what you want, and what brings you peace. This is especially difficult if you, like me, tangle your sense of self with that of others. I’ve done a lot of pushing back in my twenties, this has brought me great distress – followed by even greater relief. There is something cathartic about allowing your decisions to guide you (for better or for worse).

-       Generate a sense of community – because no one is going to do this for you, and the myth of the lone survivor is just that, a myth.

-       Stop propelling your loved ones onto pedestals that they never volunteered to be on. At some point – I don’t know when, you’ll realize that you’re the same age your mother was when she gave birth to you. You’ll find your father standing at the podium of the fancy hotel room that you’re standing in; he’s 26, while he gives a speech in a language that’s completely foreign to him. You’ll find him holding his head like a hero when he wins first place. At some point, you will need to confront the painful realization that your parents are just as human as you – and that if we can give ourselves the grace to stumble, and fall, and learn – then surely, we can afford the same opportunity to those that never had the luxury of traversing through self-discovery. I’m not asking you to excuse behaviour that is hurtful, I’m not asking you to lower your protective boundaries – but I am asking you to empathize, to put yourself in the shoes of another so that you can avoid repeating their mistakes.

-       Never, ever – EVER, travel with more than a carry-on. I started this habit when I turned 22, and I haven’t looked back since. Doing so forces you to be more mindful of the baggage that you carry, and it provides you with more control around who has access to said baggage. 

-       Do not publish your emotions in the spur of the moment – tricky as this may be, you ought to be calculated with your grief, and strategic with your anger.  Hit them where it hurts, hit once, and hit when the time is right – no sooner, no later. You may be wondering: Well, when is the time right? The time is right when you are completely detached from what you’re addressing – when that thing, or that person, or that feeling no longer holds any power over you.

-       Eat a breath mint after you’ve had black coffee; always carry cash, an umbrella, a lint cleaner, spare shoes, deodorant, an emergency contact (with their number committed to memory), and your will to exist.

-       Get.your.drivers’.license!! This is important, this is liberating, this is time sensitive.

-       Put on your lawyer hat and defend yourself if you’re ever in a collision. Do: gather the other persons’ insurance information, drivers’ license, and any evidence to support your innocence (i.e., pictures, videos, witnesses, timestamps – you’re crafting a story here, go all in). Do not: delay reporting the incident to the police or settle for any off-hand deals.

-       Understand that there’s nothing more painful than losing the façade of a friend to the reality of a foe.  This is a rite of passage, one I really wish we could skip over, one I thought I was smart enough to skip over. I was wrong, I was arrogant. I hope you take the fall with grace, because there is no avoiding it. 

-       Start eating vegetables.  I don’t know why I’m adding this one in here, but I feel like it needs to be said. I know pizza at 2 AM is lots of funsies when you’re stumbling down the sidewalk in your high heels with a strange case of the giggles, trust me – I do. But you know what’s even more fun? Functioning hemoglobin levels, a lack of brain fog, not shedding your hair like a cat. That’s a lot of fun. This is your boring big sisterly reminder to go shopping for some spinach, tomatoes, cabbage, carrots – really the whole nine yards. If you grab the frozen stuff, it won’t expire as quickly, and it’ll be fresher – a win win.

-       Are patient with yourself, and that you give yourself ample room to make all kinds of mistakes: Some silly, others painfully serious. Cliché as it may be: Where there are mistakes, there is growth.

Most importantly: I hope that you come out on the other end, wearing your battle scars proudly. A little wiser, slightly vengeful, and charmingly twisted.  

[Time/date unstamped]

Hello old friend,

as always, I find myself apologetic because I’m running three years late to our reunion. I fear that these gaps may get wider as I get older. It’s a strange experience, approaching the exit of my twenties. I started this journey feeling like I -knew- everything, and lately I’ve been feeling like I know nothing at all, like I’ve only just scratched the surface of a brand-new artifact.

I write to you, feeling at peace. It’s a warm summer day, and the breeze is just right. I can hear the rustling of the leaves above me, and the clacking of my fingers below me, but apart from that – everything is quiet. I’m slightly out of my comfort zone here, this stillness is new to me, I’m pursuing it with all the gawkiness and grace of a 13-year-old leading her first dance.

By the time you read this, I will no longer be here, I’ll likely be in a bustling airport – nervous about catching my flight, nervous about the people I will be meeting, nervous about moving forward to this odd new phase of my life. Nothing ever lasts forever; I’ve always found great comfort and even greater grief in knowing this.

But I hope our conversations last – because you, are my dearest confidant, and my longest love affair.

As I inch closer to thirty, I find myself feeling curious about a lot of things:

-       Will my kneecaps give out at the stroke of midnight?

-       Will I ever get a speeding ticket again or have I been permanently frightened into submission?

-       Now that I know what love is not, will I be brave enough to be curious about what it is?

-       How much longer can I keep getting away with being the youngest person in the room? How much longer can I use this to my advantage?

-       Can I keep on discovering new, interesting facets of myself that people find to be shiny– or is this it?

-       If this is really it, then is that awful?

That last one can really mess with my head if I let it. If I let it – which I don’t.

I distract myself by spending hours in art galleries, and leeching off the emotions of strangers like a little vampire. I distract myself by dancing in my kitchen and obsessing over how finely I can chop certain vegetables. I sell dreams with my words; I create the finest sculpture out of the stranger in the mirror. I scour bookstores around the globe for different perspectives on stories that I know (sometimes, if I’m lucky, I come across new stories too). I make friends that I may never see again and etch them to memory.

The adventures at our disposal – simple or complex, are infinite, we know this.

Just between us, though: I had a choice, once – you know.  

I was too young to recognise that a choice was presenting itself in front of me. I had been on a return flight home from Montreal, and I was chatting with someone, who at the time – I considered one of my closest friends. I whined and droned on about how delayed my flight was, and about how, as soon as I landed – I would have hardly eight hours of sleep before I was off again. After a momentary pause – my friend asked me this deceptively simple question:

“Why are you always on the go? Why can’t you sit still for once?”

The moment I read the words; I felt a pit forming at the bottom of my stomach. From any other source, any other friend – this would’ve been a casual question, a sly joke. But I sensed, even then, that my friend and I were sharing a rare, serious moment between us.

With a few taps, I responded carelessly, and honestly: “Because I have places to be. I can’t sit still, you know that.”

And that was it.

Knowing what I know now, I often wonder if I could go back and change my answer – would I? Would I say: “if only you’d ask, I’d anchor myself into stillness forever”?

Or would I spit out the words vehemently, with my fists balled in a fit of anger: Is there a reason I shouldn’t be on the go? Can you provide me with one?  

The scenarios play out in my mind, back and forth, back and forth – until ultimately, I decide that I wouldn’t change my response; even if it means having to revisit the grief over, and over, and over again in my mind.

There are certain moments in time, when we make decisions that impact our life trajectories significantly. And yet…These moments often present themselves to us with deceptively casual demeanours. We run the risk of missing them if we aren’t laser focused on the details.

Luckily, I haven’t.

Every choice, every action, every mistake – all of it, brings us to this moment, to this letter – to these words that are so intimate that I hesitate to say them out loud, for fear that they simply don’t have the right audience yet.

Yet.

Xo – M