One Whole Year…
Blog Post Four 10/11/23
Officially, it has been one whole year out of Canada and I have avoided sitting down to write about it for the entire week. Writing has always been a site of discovery. When I was younger I would sit down with my journal and at the end I would walk away with a sense of clarity I didn’t know I needed. It was like giving a mirror to my thoughts. A chance to look at them, study them, and judge them. Terrifying, no? However, I’ve found the times in life when I’ve felt the most ‘emotionally congested’ I would always ignore my pens, hide my journals, and mentally tape my laptop shut. I would refuse a tool I knew would probably help just because I was too afraid to look my thoughts in the eyes. Although throughout the years of doing this dance of needing to write but not wanting to, I’ve found a hack that usually lets me slip into taking the breath that is writing things down, and that is, reading something I’ve previously written.
Journal entry November 4th, 2022
Tonight at dinner I hysterically laugh-cried as my father's frustration grew stronger and stronger at the other end of the table. Caught in the middle of our emotional ‘discussion’ - fight - was my sister and my mom. Occasionally between my gasps of air and my dad's large hand movements my mom would pat my leg, letting me know she was there but that she had nothing to say that would help de-escalate the conversation. With one finally defeated hand gesture my dad said, “Fine well don’t even listen to me then”. I knew at that moment I had to quickly compose myself if I was wanting to salvage my last meal at home for the foreseeable future. I tried to explain that I was not laughing because I didn’t take him seriously nor did I think any of what he was saying was a joke. I was only laughing because I had no other response to him suddenly warning me of all the dangers I’ll face while solo travelling over dinner. I could only remain so serious when he went on about how I AM A TARGET, the laughter wasn’t malicious or even an attempt to be cheeky. In that moment there was no other response in my body than to laugh.
Dad “No I don’t think you are taking me seriously. Honest to god I don’t think you get how dangerous it can be - or else you wouldn’t be laughing.”
Me “Dad, I’m sorry, my laughter is not because I find any of this funny or that I don’t believe you. You have to know that I’m terrified, I’m so scared to go but I’m not scared enough to let it stop me. I’m so excited about the possibilities of what is out there and I’ve done my research, I feel prepared.”
Dad “I’m just saying - there are bad people out there who want to do bad things to you.”
My dad loves me and even if he won’t say it, I’ll take that whole conversation as a sign of how nervous he is to see me fly off into the unknown.
It made me smile to relive that dinner. After I read that entry, I closed my eyes and mentally sat down at my parent's kitchen table. The lights were dimmed for dinner. The oven fan had just been turned off and everything was ready to be served and dished out onto our plates. I guess along with acting like a mirror, writing is like a time capsule. Each page in my journal transports me back in time, letting me be in two places at once, however painful, however magical.
One whole year and thankfully no bad people.