Alice and her cookies.

A lot of our time was spent downtown, which makes for a sketchy opportunity to aqqaint yourself with some pretty lowly people. Gutter networking, as I call it. Standing around in groups along the main street, smoking cigarettes and talking in abnoxious, hyper tones. Story telling and selling weed to passerbys. Drinking forty ounce bottles of beer buried in paper bags, and harrassing the public with innappropriate gestures and trashy language. Hustlers marketing goods, stolen from the overpopulated mall centered smack dab in the middle of the downtown square. Pill popping and acid dropping. Railing PCP and speed in the McDonalds bathroom. Classy times.
She, soaked it up all down there. Talking to everyone like shes on lunch break in middle school, and wants to share her snacks with the cool kids. Social to a default and naiive as all hell. In She's mind, everybody gathering on the polluted street conrners, was a potential friend. If drugs were offered, she was the first one to open her hand. Scampering off with whom ever, sneaking into alleyways, and coming back to me restlessly loaded. Crack, acid, special K, whatever she could get her little hungry hands on. I hated when she did that shit, 'cause nothing out on the street is free, and she'd wrack us up with petty drug debt. Fueling my paranoia all the more, and forcing me to continouesly have the, 'we don't take drugs from strangers' talk. Not that I wasn't using, but I checked my sources first. Last thing I wanted was some pimp claiming my girl owes him, for that fat rail she snorted last week in the Taco Bell bathroom stall. It was like being on the street with Alice, always chasing that chescher cat, and eating up all the cookies. Tyler, often whispering in my ear, 'Babe, you gotta get her in control..she's gonna bring you heat.' Thanks for your astounding wisdom Tyler. My eyes are open now. Which takes me back to this one particular day. This little tale will give a better insight into She's character, as in, she's ignorantly fearless. The kind of girl who always chooses dare over truth, and does it with an overextended smile and a skip in her step.
It was late afternoon and we were walking down the main strip. The bus stops packed with business type suit wearers, and a parade of multi fashioned commuters. Starbucks and cigarette smoke filling the not so fresh downtown air. She, prancing around me, the never ending barage of her thoughts filling my ears. Like a five year old girl after school, telling all the stories of her day to her Mommy, as they walk home from the school bus stop. I see this man, mid forties, dressed in a suit, waiting at the bus stop. It irritates me, seeing his calm demeanor, and I imagine him going home to his wife, and sharing the bottle of wine he carrying in his hand. This anger builds in me, a jealousy. I hate him for being so well dressed and lah-dee-dah with that damn LCBO bag in his hand. I turn to She, and say..
'Wouldn't it be halarious, if you just ran up and stole his booze. Just like that, BAM, in front of everyone.
 I'd like to see the look on his generic, perfect little face.' She looks at me and smiles that overextended smile, and says,
'Yeah? I'm gonna do it! Meet me at the bridge in five minutes.' Before I can tell her I was kind of joking, she crosses the street, and right in front of that huge crowd, and all the people walking by, rushes up to that man and grabs the bottle right from out his hand. Then takes off, like a jack rabbit down the street. I stood there, mouth hanging open, trying my best to contain the look of shock on my face. The man's just standing there slack jawed. Poor guy. Turning in slow circles, trying to find something to say or do. If he did figure it out, we were already gone. Standing underneath that bridge, polishing off the bottle in minutes. Laughing like two dumbass kids on April Fools Day. Haha, Daddy sat on the whoopy cushion... Not my proudest moment, but a perfect discription of Shes approach to things like this. Pushing the envelope way past it's paper seams, and I'm not going ot lie, I kind of got off on it too.
 Getting back to the lowly people you tend to accounter downtown, there was this one group of guys I always look back on with a grimace and a turn of the gut. This long and lanky black guy named Babyface. The name ironic and underhandedly disturbing being that he prowled the streets for young girls to pull into his sex trade. Make a quick buck off their gulible underdeveloped minds. The kind of guy I would never had aqqainted myself with, had She not of been bouncing around chatting him up. The kind of guy, that when he speaks, you can hear the snake like hiss in his voice. The ashy skin of his hands, and yellowed fingers sending shivers down your spine. The kind of guy that emmenates a dark peversion, like a a shiesty New Orleans voodoo card reader. The kind of guy who sizes you up the moment he looks at you, and glides towards you like a snake over water. The whites of his eyes a sickly yellow twinge, with a glutonized stare peeking from behind them.
The kind of guy, my Dad would knock out if he had seen me in his pressence. The kind of guy we should all warn our daughters of. The kind of guy, that in a very short time, I will literally be breaking out of his house, through his bedroom window, escaping a very real threat, of being beaten and raped. He will chase us down the street, a knife in his hand, and I will run faster then Ive ever ran in my life. Terrified beyond my sickest nightmares, and knowing without a doubt, I saved She's life that night, and my own.

Falling at Your feet.

Have you ever felt yourself mature? Felt yourself grow into a new creation. Your arms and legs stretching to fit this new body.  Your mind morphing into this stronger weapon, sharpening your reactions, your reasoning and perceptions. Your mouth, tightening, holding back it's foolish tongue. Trapping the gossip, and the slander. Forcing the quiet to emanate from you, and bring a sense of calm into your aura. Your heart, softened, but strong willed. Beating fresh life into your veins. Have you ever felt God wake up inside of you, and possess you? Breathe His life into your weary, pathetic body and rouse you with His Word. Set you upright, brush you off and send you walking. Run his big strong hands through you like a strainer, removing the poison of your past, and replacing those dead seeds with fresh growing life. I've never breathed air so fresh. Tasted food so pure. Lived on blood so clean.
I've been told by many people that the pathway to joy and purpose is through Jesus Christ, but never felt it, on the deep insides of me, like this. A pulsing beating energy, alive and full. A living vibration, coursing through my flesh, my mind, my heart. Genuinely, experiencing Him, as a reality in my body. Intimate and  almost, romantic. Guiding me with his voice, spoken in the heart, firm and absolute. There is one reason I came to sit down and write today, I want to express this time of pain and growth. Through the power of Jesus. To give insight, into the journey I'm walking and why I wish this for every single person on this planet. Not because I'm some Bible thumping creepo, or because I'm this Evangelistic powerhouse trying to save the world. Because, I'm a prime example, of a person, labeled the opposite of all these titles, and never would have thought God was willing or even capable to change me the way He has. I viewed Christianity as this self-righteous frat house, and religion as well conformed lies. Maybe it is, but that doesn't matter to me anymore. The only thing that matters to me, is becoming as much like Christ as humanly possible, while I'm alive on this earth. Making that decision, because as each day goes by, it becomes all the more alive and real, that Jesus, is indeed, the way, the truth, and the life. He has re-built my heart, and set my vision right. Made me whole and beautiful. Given me purpose and love.  This earth breaks my heart and sends me reeling most days, unless I will my heart to be absolved by the truth of Jesus. In all honesty, nothing makes sense to me without Jesus. Through all my searching, and personal agony, only one person, brings it all together for me. Jesus. My addictions, my insecurity, depression, anxiety, restlessness, insomnia and trauma. All soothed, and set right by Him. He's made a home inside of me, and holds me together. Growing into this vined tree, reaching through my soul, pushing me forward and pouring forth His strength. Wisdom. Humility. Grace. Setting me free. This awful, consuming world we live in, melts away when I'm with Him. Molding my vision and perspective into one of grace. Where I can breathe again, and put down the weight of control our society so respects. I've learned that the ways of the world are childish and unfufilling. I want nothing to do with it. I watch people rat racing their lives, stacking themselves against one another, and just shake my head in sadness. How awful, for this to be our worlds goal. To devour ourselves, and glutonize our lives. Do you really find satisfaction in your wallet, furniture and name brand clothing? Conforming into this blinded, marching people, that work to live and live to work. Career driven drones, counting down the hours of their work day, only to come home to stiff glasses of whiskey, and kids that drive them crazy. To bills and a stay at home wife, who pops anti-depressants, convincing herself this is the way to feel normal. One day, she'll have her life back, just have to get through this five year plan. To buy stuff,  that at some point, end up owning you, so you can show them off to your friends and in your immaturity, feel superior, and ahead of the game.  This is what I'm turning my back on, and turning my face upward. Toward the light, to be filled with it whole hearted, and reach out my hands to the ones around me, and be light to them. I'm embracing the uniqueness of this vision, and with Jesus at my side, building a new reality. One that, will deny those lies, and says yes to unity. Unity with God, with the people around me and with myself. This commitment, valued all the more since the news of my Grandmothers cancer. Have you ever lived day to day with a person so broken they don't even look you in the eye anymore? Day in day out, watching them struggle to get out of bed. To smile, to eat. Holding her hand in mine, hers shaking and cold. The hand of the woman who helped raise me, loved me unconditionally, and when I speak to her of Jesus, she cries. Not tears of joy, tears of a broken heart, abandoned and alone. Like a child she sits, asking me where He's gone, and if He'll ever come back to her. Her eyes wide and full of tears, looking to me for the answers. For the soothing touch, and calming voice she craves so deeply. A woman, 88 years old, walking the end path of her life. Death, creeping up behind her, whispering lowly, scary things in her ear. The enemy, holding her down, and she looks to me for release. If I we're a weaker woman, walking alone, it would break me. I would run away from her, in my fear and pain, and turn my back. This story unfolding day by day, carries the weight of a thousand tons. What does one say? what are the perfect words? They do not exist. The only thing that exists in a situation such as this, is God. I want to breathe God in so deeply, that when she looks at me, she sees Him. I want to sacrifice myself, in totality, and walk the path of righteousness. So much so, that my Grandma cannot deny the light inside of me. That through me, she can believe again, and reach out for His ever open hand. I've wanted this for myself, for years, and so my motives are also personal. Although, watching her be this way, has propelled my desire all the more. Pushing me forward, towards Him, escalating my ever growing desire to be inside Christ in all ways. Of course it's her choice, in her own free will, to do as she pleases under God. But I will not fall under the weight of her reality, or others. I will hold strong in prayer, and my convictions, allowing Jesus to bring Himself to life inside of me, and relying on the power of The Holy Spirit to express itself through my mouth and actions. This is what I want above all else, and even if she doesn't see, and decides to accept things in the light she chooses, then so be it. God will bring her home, regardless of my actions, and all will be as it should. This is the freedom I speak of, to no longer have great concerns and the desire to bare control. To no longer, carry weapons, and fight against the world, and letting God do it for me. Finding peace in the will of God, for it is the only place peace can be possessed. Absolute and tangible. It might sound like an impossible task, and it would be, if I weren't walking beside Jesus, and willing my heart towards His desire. It would be, if we're relying on my own intellect and wisdom. But I'm not, I'm falling at his feet, whole hearted, admitting my weakness, and asking Him to replace it with His power. With his guiding hand, and his eternal heart. So that no matter how heavy it gets, as my Grandma goes through surgery, and as the cancer grows inside of her. I am with her. I am not wavering, but solid and standing firmly in the roots Jesus has given me. That I can speak life into her sick body, and portray grace and acceptance in all my actions. That with me, she need not hide. Not fight, but rest. This is the fresh life pulsating through my veins. The clean blood running through my body. The cool air filling my lungs. The strength and wisdom building up my heart. Jesus. Hold me while I cling to you, and guide me into all truths, that I may do your will. Without your will, this earth is dark and deep waters. See me as a willing partner, and if you don't honour what you see, then change me. I'm willing. I'm here. I am nothing, but an empty shell without You. With You, I am REAL. Tangible, full and alive. Help me bring that to my Grandmothers feet. That she may be washed by your grace, and healed by your forgiveness. You are raw, and real Jesus. Firm and beautiful. Powerful and overwhelming. Alive in truth. Hot blazing fire, and cool soothing water. Life. A pulsating under current of all things on earth. Acknowledged or not, but very much the perfect reality. I see you. I honour you. I desire you with every cell of my existence, and search for you in all my ways, and when I don't, change me. Change me Jesus. I'm willing. I'm here. My love, continue to put this world right in my eyes. Make me a beacon of your unconditional love, your grace. Your peace. I'm tired of the heavy burden this life carries, and all I want is You. You are all my hope and joy. I'm counting on You, Jesus. I'm going to miss her so much when You come to take her home. Please, help me, bring her a miracle, in this life, on this earth. I want to see her smile, one real and full, and beautiful smile before shes enveloped by your light and beauty. Absolved into the never ending vastness of your love, while I continue here, on earth...

For you, babe.

Four years ago, I bent down on my knees in my Dad's garage, and reached out to Jesus in a way I had never done before. My heart humbly broken, quietly still as tears ran down my tired, hungover face. The cocaine from the night before, edging underneath my skin, weighing me down in heavy shame. My hands shaking, mouth dry and coarse from the beer I drank to come down. My eyes swollen and red, dehydrated, lonely and afraid. In a depraved, and desperate whisper I asked you for one thing.
Jesus,
I can't do this anymore. I need a place to stand. Bring me my foundation. Please Father, I'm ready. I'm so tired. I need to rest. I'm tired of fighting every day, pushing, to keep my head above water. I'm drowning Jesus. Pull me out...please.
I knelt there for a long time, tears running down my face. Sketchy, drained and weary. Holding onto the last thing I could, Jesus Christ. Pulling fiercely at his love. Cocaine, alcohol, and ecstasy running through my veins, poisoning me. Laughing at me. Chewing away at the little self-respect I had left. Half of the woman I was meant to be. A sketchy junkie, thin and emaciated. Running around the city with criminals and bottom feeders. Coming home to my parents, when the cocaine had run out, drinking myself into oblivion, just to get some sleep. Waking up the next day, only to restlessly, do it over again. Pale white skin, with matching rib bones, protruding from my sides. Starved body, starved soul. A mind and heart, hardened and raped by drugs.
The next day, sitting in front of my computer, My Space splashed across the screen, I stumble on the picture to my left. After a couple glasses of wine, or an entire bottle for that matter, I message the artist. This is the first time, I've ever reached out on a social network, and I feel like some creeping weirdo. Never mind that his user name is Skank..lovely.
I just had too say something though, far too talented to go unnoticed.
That night, I have this crazy vivid dream. I'm suddenly walking through the mountains. It's quiet and eerily still as the snow falls gently around me. Kind of like that scene in Kill Bill, when Uma Thurman has that bad ass fight scene with Lucy Lui. That stillness. Like if you move to quickly you'll disrupt nature. It's beautiful here, and even the cold doesn't bother me. I feel this gust of wind, powerful and chilled. Looking up to the sky, I see this huge black griffin. Wings outstretched, gliding with all might along the clouds. I'm frozen in fear and surprise. I've never seen a griffin before, not in the movies, not on t.v, not that I can remember. It's so stunning, and sleek. So powerful. I'm shockingly intimidated so I don't even move, hardly even breathe. Swooping down from the sky, it lands about ten feet away from me. Shaking out its glorious wings, as settles down to rest. I want to touch it so bad, but I'm terrified. As I'm thinking this, the griffin turns it's grand and statuesque face towards me, and through the eyes, motions to me to come over. It's alright, it says, with those mighty eyes. Slowly and with all caution I tread over to this majestic beast, and run my hand along it's ink black feathers. Admiring it's strength and royal demeanor. He stretches out his magnificent wing and wraps it around me, nuzzling me in it's warm, muscular chest. I can hear the heart, beating loudly in it's warm cave. Soothing and safe. The snow no longer touching me, the mountains a distant memory as I close my eyes, and feel guarded. Sheltered. Like I'm cocooned from all harm, and free to let go. Free to rest. I do, and fall asleep there, with the griffin, it's wings enveloping me, there in the mountains.
For all of you, who know me, you already know that the above painting, was skillfully painted by my husband Monty. My powerful griffin perched in the mountains, shielding me with it's wings. Not to mention, that Monty's actually from Eagle River, Alaska. A small town surrounded by mountains. That from the moment I met you, I've felt guarded by you. Protected, and shielded. You've been holding my hand from the moment I sent you that message. Your big, warm tattooed hand. Your warm beating heart, wrapping itself with mine. I'd never felt that way before. I have now, every single day since you walked into my world. The griffin dream putting to life the foundation to come. The acceptance, and love you would humbly offer. Free to rest. Free to breathe. To be loved.
 The opportunity to give myself a shot, at waking up and choosing to live. At a chance to have a family. At giving birth to our son, our handsome, compassionate and astoundingly perfect boy, Landon. You  gave me the trust and honour I needed to believe in myself as a mother. As a person. As a woman. You've been my soft spot to land, my warm cozy blanket.My heart.Without you, I would never have been able to heal, inside God, within our family or within myself. You are the first person, I have put down my weapons with, and smashed down walls for. I am committed to you in ways I can't even express, and would never leave your side or dishonour you in any way. I believe, with all my heart and soul, that you and I, and our son deserve all the the things in life God has for us, and I commit in front of God, and to you, to continue to grow and honour our family with all my ability. When it hurts, when it doesn't, and even when I can't go another day. Life, seems so short to me suddenly, watching my Grandma with her illness. I want us, to have more. All the things available to us. My dreams for our family are vast and exciting. Even in this place of pain we've been in, as of late. With so much sadness surrounding us, it's only fueling me forward. I'm tired of being held back by circumstances. I want to break free with you baby, and spread the amazing light we have to offer. I love you so much. I'm so sorry for holding back, and not letting you in. That's over as of this moment, and it's all for us my love, for Landon, for God. In honour of life, of Jesus, of us, and everyone surrounding us. We can do it baby, we can do it. This time we'll have it it all. Showing you all all the cards, giving you all my heart. Again, and over and over. 'Til Kingdom come, Monty.
I'm standing next to YOU...and I want everyone to know it. You are amazing. Unique in the most admirable way. Honourable and morally sound. Strong in your quiet wisdom, and patience. Full of Grace and loyalty. My best friend. My dream was right, with you, there's freedom. There's rest and safety. Standing with you, inside Jesus, all things are possible.
Thank you for giving me a place to stand Monty.
Thank you for being the man of honour I needed in my life, loving me and lifting me up.
Thank you for letting me screw things up sometimes, so I have the space to learn from my mistakes.
Thank you for being who you are in my life, and in our sons life.
Thank you for choosing to be a man of God, even when it's hard.
Thank you, for all you do, in all the ways you do it, because I admire the way you do things.
I love you,
Always have,
Always will,
xo,
The hot Canadian ;)

Adjusting the Scales.

I want to tell you, that I felt guilty for what we did to that man in the car. But, the truth is I didn't. I want to tell you I walked away from that night, promising to never do that again, and that I was a disgusting person, for even acting on it. But, I can't. I walked away feeling empowered that night. I walked away, feeling, in control. For the first time in my life.
There was a kind of power in that act, that I craved from the moment it began. I didn't cry with guilt or shame, not at first. I didn't feel any disgrace, or hold any contempt towards myself. I felt licensed by the violations of my past. I was adjusting the scales. It was a very easy lie to build upon, easy to weave into my reality, because the gas that fueled it was tangible. The pain was very real, the memories, very powerful. The desire for revenge, compiling itself, as an attainable reality. I know, your thinking, um, Angie, these guys were not the guys that raped you. They're random guys on the street. I mean, really??
I hear you, but try telling me that ten years ago. My mind was so warped, it didn't even matter to me. All indecent men, according to me, were worthless, violent, dogs. Period. I was too broken to see past my delusions, and acknowledge the truth. I was sick. She's, immediate grasp and instant approval didn't help either. Plugging her coins into my big bullshit machine. Slipping out phrases like, ' That piece of shit won't be harassing any more women tonight will he?' and laughing like we just won the big ticket prize at the casino. Lighting a cigarette and hugging her, like we've accomplished something of value. Tyler, thanking me quietly with a long hug, and a kiss on the neck. Good girl. Let's go get a place to sleep and watch movies on late night t.v. Slipping into his world of warmth and comfort. Like a child hugging her father, after a terrifying nightmare wake up. Little hands shaking, asking for a glass of water. It's not real baby, go to sleep. The liquor, always on hand, carrying me away to careless abandon and drunken black outs in cheap gutter motels. Waking up, spinning, opening my eyes to find my face nestled in She's soft curls. The soft breathing as she sleeps still and quiet. Unaware yet, of the day that awaits us again, as she finds relief in her dreams. I always hated waking up in those days. Always wishing the night before could have gone on forever. When we had a place to sleep, and money in our pockets. When our bellies were full and our clothes were still clean, and the morning had yet to come. I was always the first one up, the stress slapping me awake with nightmares, and I pour a big glass of whisky and go sit in the shower. Shoving my head under the pelting water, drowning out the sound of my thoughts, the whisky sitting on the ledge of the tub.Wishing we could keep the room longer, then the two hours left on the clock. I imagine often, the loud knocks on the motel room door, the cops kicking it down. Much Music countdown playing from the crackling t.v, as they knock me down to the ground and slap cold metal cuffs around my wrists. I picture She laughing and jumping up and down on the bed as they chase her around in her panties, her long hair, wild and free like a dancing hippie.The cops scrambling to get a hold of her. Maybe I want it to happen, maybe I don't, but I daydream of it. Of how it will all go down in the end. When we all get caught for being stupid, vicious little teenagers with a vendetta. Well, except for Tyler, I'm just his meal ticket.
A delivery menu with big colourful pictures of delectable foods on the front.  

Alter-Ego

Cold ice washes over me, as he passes me his wallet. Surrealism at it's shittiest. I don't even look inside, just, shove it into my back pocket.
'Your keys,' I say forcefully. He shakes his head.' Not my car, man, please.' His hand reaching out and clutching the clanging little mass sticking out from the ignition. Your keys. I say one more time, moving my face closer to his. Eye to eye, the quiet battle of submission. 'I'm not gonna steal your car buddy, just give me your fucking keys'..he's holding his breath as he turns the ignition off and drops the keys in my palm. I wipe them off with my hoodie sleeve, paranoid about prints. Lift them up in the air and throw them as far as I can. They land in a row of dying, polluted bushes lining the parking lot. Perfect. It'll take him a while to find to them, giving us the time we need to take off. She is still holding the axe to his throat as I continue my wipe down. The door handle, the window. Anything in between. The fabric of my sweatshirt squeaking along the exterior.
I tell him, under no circumstances is he to get out of his car until we're out of view. He shakes his head yes, and after a couple seconds, after that last grim look, She slowly pulls the cold metal away from his jugular. His hands are still up at his sides as we turn around and bolt. I look back once, and he's still sitting, frozen, the car door ajar.
Once we're a few blocks away, I stop to check the wallet. Enough money to rent a cheap motel room, and get something to eat. I pull out the cash, wipe the wallet down, and toss it into a nearby garbage can. I already feel cleaner, and surprisingly, not guilty. Something about having a place to sleep tonight, removes the burden from me completely, and I feel better. This thing inside me has begun to breathe. Something new, and raw and hungry. This kind of, vengeful eating beast. This vigilante ghost. Breathing into my ear, whispering congratulations and toasting me with cheap champagne. Hi Satan. Nice to meet you. Feel free to rummage through my trash and build a place for yourself in this dark and foul monologue. Set up your stinking workshop, pick your characters. Pull your strings. The doors are open.
As we walk to meet Tyler, my mind is building it's own getaway place. Changing this into something livable, something I can carry more easily. A lie. One, I'm more willing to accept. Like, I'm not robbing people. I'm avenging myself. I'm taking back my power. I'm a vindictive rape victim, searching the streets for perverted Johns. Retaliating, justified and validated. Some austere character from a Sin City comic. Some kind of crazed alter-ego. My own Tyler Durton. Kicking up a storm with a, who gives a shit. Too bad this isn't the damn movies kid.

Imminent Madness

Finishing my meal is next to impossible. All I can see is Tyler's eyes. Feel the pressure mounting around me. The expectation and heavy wave of imminent madness. The patrons filling the diner seem, all of sudden, farther away. Like I'm standing on the other side of an invisible wall. Looking in from the outside. Wishing I could go back in time, by a meager five minutes. I realize, this is probably exactly what Tyler was discussing, in his whispered boy time. Whatever, there's no time to think about that now. It's time to go, before the diner starts to clear up, and we get caught skipping out on this two hundred dollar bill. The boys stay behind so we can get a head start, being that we're going to be taking care of the hard part. Assholes. Tyler does nothing to reassure me as we get up to go, but tells he'll be waiting for us down the street. For us to come find him when we're done. I'm  trying not to up chuck as he repeats it one more time. Walking out the front door into the night air, everything feels manic. The rustling of the trees, the street lamps spotlighting us as we walk. Each breath I take, fast and shallow, like the raging pumping of my heart. The sweat building up on the inside of my palms. She keeping pace with me, and I can feel her curious nervousness. Once we're out of view from the diner, I pull her aside. Red's still with us, and I ask her if she really wants to be here for this. She says yes, obviously hiding her frantic anxiety. I again shake my head, telling her this isn't some kind of drive in movie show. Go home. She folds her arms, and pulls this five year old temper tantrum stance, and I give up.
She looks at me with anticipation, and I tell her. We're just gonna walk the back street, and go from there. It's late enough now, that most people have gone in for the night and we won't have to worry as much about somebody seeing us. As I'm saying these things, my heart rate jacks up, and I feel like I can't breathe. I'm not so much scared as I am, one hundred percent aware, how fucking wrong this is. Also, of how it's going to happen anyways. As we continue walking, I tell She, if we see someone, follow my lead. We're only doing guys, no chicks. I tell her guys will let down their guard if they think there's a chance they might get some ass, so be flirtatious. She's just nodding her head yes, as I go down the list of my inexperienced commands. As I'm saying these things, I realize, I don't know if I have the balls to do this. I genuinely have a great amount of compassion. I'm not a violent person. I can be, but naturally I'm just not wired that way. My ability to kick some ass, and act fearless, comes from my time spent on the street and the drug lifestyle. It's all a learned behaviour. So, this is what I'm trying to do as we walk, learn. Find a way to feel some hate. I have to hate, if I'm going to do this. Digging, find it Ang, find it. Suddenly there it was, the faces I needed. The rape. Fuck. The rape. There it is. Boiling searing hate. Bubbling stinking sulfur. It stabs at me, and I use it. We see this lone car, parked awkwardly in the middle of a large empty parking lot. Exhaust fumes smoking out the back tail pipe. The driver side window rolled down, the man sitting alone. Smoking a cigarette.  I look at She. She looks at me and nods. The cars about 20 feet away, and all I can hear is the pounding thud of my heart in my ears. Reaching deeper inside myself, letting the hate rise up in me. It's loud and strong, so much, I can hardly bare it. Fuck this hurts. The man looks over at us, surprised, but smiling. His long hair, thin and curled by the grease he hasn't washed off in days. Getting closer, I'm shaking with my tormenting memories, this is turning into some kind of sick flashback. Why did I open Pandora's infinite box. He throws out some perverted comment, of which I can't remember, I can only recall the switch it flipped inside of me. I went from shaking, to viciously hard and vengeful. From nervous, to mechanicle and almost relaxed.  His face turning into the faces I hated so much. His dirty mouth, yellow teeth and predatory gaze adding to the incentive. She leans over and looks into his eyes, Hey sugar..you lookin' for a date? he nods his head yes as he asks how much. I haven't had to say a word yet, as I watch She slowly reaching into her pants, I almost forgot about the hatchet for a second. Answering him with a, how much you got baby? her hand gliding down over the silver metal as he leans over to grab his wallet. By the time he sits up and opens it, She has the blade of the axe resting on his throat. His eyes gaping as he realizes what's happening. He momentarily moves his head back, trying to escape it. Rage and fear well up in me and I grab his face with my hand.
Don't you move asshole, she'll slit your throat before your next breath, all I have to do is say yes. Do you fucking understand?
The words trailing off into the night air...and all I can hear is his heavy breathing. This isn't me. I haven't just said those words, but it's too late. It's just way too late.

Garbage and Hamburger Grease.

The city has a sinister feel at night time. Out come the blinking lights and diner signs. The screeching and growling of buses, the bass of heavy hip hop reverberating through the air,escaping from the windows of nearby traffic. The cackling chatter of the public, mixed with gossip, ringing cell phones and drunk passersby. The homeless chants of sparing change. Downtown smells like exhaust fumes and vomit. Liquor and cigarette smoke. Garbage and hamburger grease. The occasional blast of pot smoke, and the aroma of peculating coffee squeezing through the cafe doors, as people bustle in and out in a rush.
As I'm walking, I'm relieved to have a few people at my side. Tyler and one of his boys, and of course, loyal as she was from the get go,She.
She is walking next to me, talking through her constant smile. Story after story. She unknowingly skips when she walks, not a full blown skip, but almost this youthful hyper glide. You imagine her feet to barely touch the spit covered sidewalk, and she reminds you of a ten year old girl who's just come back from a field trip. It's almost refreshing, until you remember what's really happening. You remember, you have no bed to sleep in tonight, or enough money in your pockets for a hotel room. That you've left your home, as much as it was evil, and these streets are now your play/battle ground. The boys walking behind you, whispering in fast hushed tones, hustle, hustle hustle.
Red meets up with us a few minutes later, she's come out to slum it. A break from her sheltered suburban life. I'm deeply aggravated with that, and only shake my head at her for even being here. Fine, tag along sweetheart.
I've been disconnected all day, and insultingly quiet. Finding relief in She's banter. I'm totally aware that something messed up is going to go down tonight, and so are the boys. We're all thinking, planning and processing. Often, taking a second, to look up at each other and give the stare of settled awareness. The unspoken, yep...this is it. You ready? look. Tyler and I did this all the time, barely ever really needing to ask or explain anything to each other. We had that weird twin thing, reading each others mannerisms and facial expressions. Two peas in a pod. Two sardines in a stinking can. Two master manipulators praying on She's ignorance and trust. We should have been ashamed of ourselves, we should have made her go home. Instead we all decided to hit an all night diner and do a dine and dash. We planned to have a feast of our favorite meals and figure out the rest later. I had only done one other dine and dash in my life, but at this point who gave a shit. The diner looks like a  1950's hamburger joint and is open twenty-four hours. It's packed with late night bar hoppers and a mirage of other downtown hanger outs. The booth we sit in is cushioned with red vinyl and the table looks like something right out of Leave it to Beaver. Music plays loudly in the background as She looks over the menu like a kid in Disneyland. Ordering Milkshakes and desserts. I opt for a coffee and  a light dinner, my stomach isn't working with me tonight. All I can think about is, what comes next. After we bail on our bill, and the night turns to the early hours of the morning. I think about hours earlier, walking away from the Y for the last time. How the director told me, if I left with Tyler, I wouldn't be aloud to return, under no circumstances. I tell her, it's my only option, and she turns her back to me. I'm swirling my spoon in the coffee and staring into the creamy hot liquid. I hate myself. The others at our table, gorging themselves, laughing and acting like a bunch of dumb kids at dinner for a birthday party. Except Tyler. He's staring at me from across the table. Nudging my foot with his. Watching me stare off into oblivion. He gives me the come sit next to me look, and I sigh, knowing some kinda filthy scheme is about to drop from his lips. He puts his arm around me, leans his forehead on mine, and out it comes. The black, dripping tar hanging from his mouth. The sentence that catapults the disturbing play of my immediate life...
Hey babe..
I stop breathing.
Have you ever jacked someone?
I choke on it, closing my eyes, feeling the warmth of his forehead on mine.
Fuck.
Thirty minutes.

She.

The first thing I noticed about her, was her complete unwillingness to give a shit about anything. Honestly. Upbeat, vocal, energetic as all hell, but totally care free in regards to consequences. It's hard for me to describe her, because I haven't met a person like her since. Anyone remember Lori Singer's character in the 1984 classic, 'Footloose'?
Well, that's the closest I can get. Fearless. Rambuncious. Flirtatious. Rebellious. Down for anything. Like I said in my previous post, the first time we met was at the building. She stopped by, with an old friend of mine, who I grew up before my life went in spirals. We'll call this old friend Red.
Red had brought her over, to use her in a credit card scam she was trying to pull. So, this is how we met, and the connection was instant and obvious. I remember sitting with her, drinking, railing pills and I notice this huge gash on the top of her hand. It's open and infected, obviously had needed stitches. I ask her what happened. She tells me, she was breaking into a house in the suburbs, and, after smashing in the window, a piece of  glass had fallen down and stabbed her on the top of her hand. She laughs. Proceeds to tell me she found this gnarly battle axe in the house, and she has it on her if I want to see it. I say sure, lying, because I'm not really into weapons so much. I held a gun once, and it felt, like I was lying, it felt absurd. Not my thing.
 She pulls this rediculous hatchet out from inside of her jeans, and I laugh. Ask her why the hell shes carting this thing around in her pants, like she's Jefferey Dalhmer or something. She says, why not, if something were to happen she'd have what she needed. Cool, whatever. It's medium sized, and full on silver. Even the handle, and holding it makes me ill at ease. Like I said, I don't dig weapons and this thing looks like a serial killers choice pick. Eerie.
The night continues on, the burning whisky, the little orange pills. Shot, crush, rail.
 She tells me, she can't stand her parents and would do anything to live in a place like this instead. Idiot. I tell her she's more than welcome to stay but, were all leaving in two days. Tell her, Tyler's getting kicked out, and were gonna hit the streets. It takes all of two seconds for her to decide that shes coming with us. We've only just met, and she's already taken by Tyler's charms, and my false confidence. In order not to feel guilty, I tell myself she's a big girl and can make her own choices. Plus, I need her. Nothing worse then being out on the street hustling, without another female at your side. I need the comfort, the sisterhood. The back. The wounded hand to hold. Someone to take care of, besides myself. Someone to help me define and make sense of my foolish choice to leave. Her young minded optimism and hippy mindset, adding perfectly, to my jaded, fearful pessimism. Water and Fire. Yin and Yang. I'm Mickey, she's Malory. Except, instead of going out in a blaze of gunfire, the last time I'll ever see her is through a plexi glass window, an unexpected run in, during a transfer. Her, to the adult dorms, and I, to the young offenders unit. She smiles and winks at me as we pass, almost one of those slow motion moments we all have in his life at some point. The look, the eyes, the mannerisms I'll never forget. Her long brown curly hair, a mess, the forest green jumper, I'll get to know so well in the future. I have the thought, that right from the beginning we never had a chance. To quote Natural Born Killers... Like Mister Rabbit says, a moment of realization, is worth a thousand prayers.
Two days.

Three Days.

I stumble out into the hallway, dry mouthed and dizzy. Good morning hangover. Through the squint of my blurry eyes I can see the blood, finger painted across the hallway walls. Smeared and dragged across the floor, spattered above, decorating the ceiling tiles. Dry, hoarse coughs escaping my throat as I swerve towards the bathroom for some cold water. I'm trying to forget the red messy scene out there as I lower my mouth to the tap, and gulp. Washing away the night’s film from my dreary eyes. Anywhere but here, please. I lower my head as I shuffle back to my room, close the door with a tight lock and hide under my blankets, praying for a long escape of sleep. Where is Tyler when I need him.

I wake up sometime in the evening. Happy to be concealed from the suns spotlight. Tyler’s back and he's frantic. Pacing back and forth, his face hard and angry. Something's happened. He tells me he has three days to pack his shit and leave. He's getting evicted. My stomach ties up into tight coils. I can't breathe. The panic rising, my heart racing. Faster, faster. I can't breathe. I can't stay here, can't live here without him. I won't do it. I CAN'T DO IT. I start to cry.

He sits down in front of me. Tells me not to be afraid. Tells me I don't have to be alone, that I can come with him and I eat it up like a starving dog. We sit there, quietly together, staring at the floor. Digesting the hopeless truth of our situation. Three days. Three days until the darkest dark of my life. Three days...

He holds my hand in his. Looking into my eyes.

"Angie. I'm here with you. Don't be afraid. We'll figure it all out. It's us babe, okay? It's us."

I'm doing my best to let him mess with my head. I want to be manipulated. I need to believe him. I need to believe, that I have no other choice. The thought of staying here alone is a threat I cannot fathom. It impregnates me with a sense of dread I cannot contain, or fight against. Eating away at me like a vultcher on a fresh carcass. My options melting away, into one big bullshit lie. I have to stay with Tyler.

The fact that she will be showing up here in a matter of hours, makes my decision carry even more weight, and my fear morphs into displaced abandon. Wilful ignorance. Wilful blindness. A veil of denial creeping over my naive eyes. She gives me the excuse I need. The hand to hold, the look of trust, which fuels the step we'll be taking next. Three days, until we hit the streets. Three days until I cross over, into the bottom feeders of society, into the black depths of fear and survival, and commit my first violent crime.

Robbery.

Three days.

Hot Sting.

I could hear her screaming before I even opened my room door. The shrill uproar interrupting the quiet of the afternoon. Loud, frantic and crazed. She's pacing the hall, back and forth. She doesn't even know I can see her, that small bony body, like that of a newly hatched bird. Angular and sharp. Her hair is a mess of matted curls and grease. She's about half my size. Tiny little thing, with a mouth of poison hate and a heart of rage. She doesn't see me come up behind her, and place my hand on her shoulder. Her body tensing up as she spins around and slaps me across the face. Hot sting. I grab her by the throat and push her up against the wall. Her little body dangling as she chokes on my grasp. It's in this moment I realize I'm covered in blood. It's dripping from my hands, smearing on the floor under my shoes, making that squeaking sound, like after you come in from a walk in the rain. I'm trying not to panic as I search for where it's coming from. Checking myself to make sure I haven't been stabbed. That she hasn't either. I let go of her throat and grab her arm. A large open slice, running along her wrist. Blood pouring forth, as she collapses into my arms. I pick her up like a groom does his bride, and carry her to the bathroom. Leaving a trail of blood behind us as I walk. She is light, like a child. I'm hard and cold. More annoyed at her dramatics, then the fact that she's tried to off herself. Never mind the fact that she just slapped me across the face. I don't have time for this shit, I've got my own problems sweetheart. Once we're in the bathroom, surrounded by the buzzing florescent lights and smell of recycled paper, I put her down gently, and apply pressure to her wounds with toilet paper, towels, anything. I ask someone to call 911 and  lean up against the wall. My hands are shaking, and I can feel the scream welling in my gut. I bound my hands into to tight fists, punch the wall and take off.
My knuckles are bleeding as I walk, quickly, looking for a place to hide. To be alone. To deflect from the bloody attempted suicide I just casually strolled into. In case you're wondering, she doesn't die. She'll spend a couple nights in the hospital and come right back to this hellish building, with a smile on her face, because for once she'll be the center of attention. Which is exactly what she wanted. Good for her.
As I walk, I'm thinking about how all I want to right now, is drink. That burning liquid in my stomach, numbing out the restless anxiety of my spirit. How, I want to get as far away from this place as possible. For as long as possible. I'm thinking, I really don't care what happens, as long as I get an out. It's all I can see, taste and smell.
Something from the pits of hell, will hear my torment, and send me an answer.
She'll show up in a matter of days, and partner up with me like a Thelma and Louise movie clip. Driving our car off into the horizon, over a jagged rocky cliff...

The Traveller

I can only imagine the pain God felt watching me throw myself into the fire.
The immense empathy and perfect love.
Thinking about it, brings tears to my eyes. He's so beautiful and I can't imagine hurting Him in any way.
I have some things I'd like to say to Him, a much needed breath of fresh air, before continuing onward with the manic scenarios. Indulge me.

Father,
I want to start by saying how crazy grateful I am for Your protection over me, in those days. All the unseen miracles that took place and the angels you placed about me, keeping charge over me in all my ways. Looking back on it, I see myself as this traveller. Traveling through the depths of hell, but never rooting there. Moving through that era, my soul biding it's time, before coming back to you. Like you gave my heart a crash course in  "the lost." So, in the future I could flip through my inner filling cabinet, and pull out grace and understanding, So I could have empathy and passion for those still in that life. Those in jail, women who have faced sexual assault, addiction, depression, and domestic abuse. Families in similar situations. You've gifted me with a spectrum of perspectives. It's truly amazing, now that I have the eyes to see that. The absolute perfect miracle of it. You blow my mind.
Everything I've needed you have given me, and so much more. You are so giving Father. So incredibly giving. You have created things in my life I could never dream on my own. Your vision for me is vast and whole, that my mind cannot conceive it. I watch as this perfect tapestry is being built of my life, how you use even the smallest of things, to create a blessed work. A miracle. You are so humble Father.
Every time I sit down to honour the joy and purpose, you're weaving into my life, I'm in awe. I find it hard to express. It's so big, so detailed. Your ways are too perfect. Our vocabulary lacks the words.
You make me brave. You calm me when I'm afraid, and remind me, that in You there is no fear, only love. Understanding. Grace. Total acceptance and perfect joy. You have saved my life from destruction. You sent your Son, of whom I love deeply and eternally, to be tortured, abandoned and die for me. Jesus, my love, my strength and my humility. I love you more then I can even speak of. I can say for the first time in my life, I'm learning how to trust You, rely on You and use You. I am so crazy excited about that, because I know nothing but good fruit can come of it. A larger span of perfect works and an expansion of your great and vast love. For us. People. All of us. Beautiful.

I love you Father. Thank you for taking care of me.
Ang

Downers and a strait jacket.

Each floor of the building housed a particular grouping of people. For example, the sixth floor, my floor, was reserved for underage youth, in housing crisis. The list would go on with, abused women and children, refugees, students, people facing addiction issues and sober living. I think there may have been a seniors floor too, but I'm not sure. It was a long time ago. Throw all these troubled, unsteady people into one building, and you can imagine the kind of situations you'd be forced to run into. Violence. Theft. Attacks. Drugs. Drug overdose. Death. Stink. Filth. Fear. Evil. It was like living in a mental institution without any bars. Without any concrete authority. Unmanageable.
 Some days would go by, without anything overly dramatic happening, but then others, you'd see too damn much to handle. Just messed up shit, like people pulling knives on each other, or a woman arrested half naked in the hallway, cussing and spitting drunken misery. Kids walking around, that should never have to live in a place like this. Playing with used toys, from the donation box, in the common living area. Paramedics wheeling body bags on stretchers out of the elevator, when you come down to buy a morning coffee from the cafeteria. The kind of things you don't forget, but would really like to. Things that can burn an image in your memory, for the rest of your life.
Seeing this stuff, these dark and twisted reality's, so often, never-ending, shoved me into intense anxiety. I started having nightmares, insomnia when I wasn't dreaming of hell fire, and panic attacks. My hands began to shake all the time, and I stopped being able to cry. I just could not cry, anymore. Instead of tears, I would feel the pain like a stab of nausea in the gut, and throw up. Feeling nothing afterwards, but the quick rhythm of my heart, as the feelings push back into myself,and lock up with my tears.
 I've always been told that I'm too sensitive. I feel things too deeply. I now, love that about myself, but back then, it damn near sent me to my grave. I couldn't handle it, so young, after everything I'd already been through. It sent me reeling, and there was no one there to soothe, or help me understand. Except Tyler.
After the guy busted through my door, in the middle of the night, you know, the one looking for his girlfriend. I started to sleep in Tyler's room. I was so cracked by my fear by that point, I couldn't bare the thought of sleeping alone. Just the idea of it, and I'd get sick to my stomach. It was really bad. I seriously cannot remember any other time in my life, that I've been more broken. Nothing about me worked properly anymore. I could hardly eat, sleep, breathe. I developed nervous ticks, like checking the locks on the door all the time. Having someone come with me to the shared bathroom if I wanted to shower. Terrified someone would come in and try to rape me. I was a wreck. I even started to carry around a knife , just in case. That's a surreal moment, when you make that choice.Where you say to yourself, I need a weapon, and I'm going to carry this weapon on me from now on. Having it settles you and you feel more in control, but also more paranoid. I was always paranoid. Couldn't get around it. I was so high tension, I would see white sparks all the time, and my hearing would go in and out. Like I had this incessant static in my head. Stale. Dry mouth. Sensitive eyes. Couldn't eat much, just drink coffee and smoke cigarettes all day. Never-mind the handful of pills I was ingesting on the regular. Yay for having friends with prescriptions. I can honestly say I had a severe nervous breakdown. If those even exist, and I should have been hospitalized. I should have gotten up, walked out of there, and dropped my ass off at the R.O.H. Ottawa's lovely, nearby, mental hospital. I should have told them, I was viciously unstable, and signed myself off to downers and a straight jacket. I could have avoided all the jail time, all the damage, all the broken hearts. The blood. The dirty money. The raging hell. But I didn't. I sat there and let myself rot until I was stinking, brown mush. Useless and unusable. A shell of the person I was meant to be. Mostly a person I wasn't.  A hollow puppet, dancing on a stage made of shit.

..and then there was him.

I'm sitting outside, on the wooden bench out front. I'm alone, smoking a king size du maurier. My elbows leaning on my knees, head down, private, so I don't meet the eyes of the people coming in and out. I have no business looking at anyone around here,and they have no business looking at me either. I'm a jaded, lonely, drowning kid.
 I didn't notice him at first, when he busts through the front door. Standing alone, looking around for a familiar face. He walks up to me slowly, asks if he can bum a smoke. I say yes, hardly looking up to see him. He sits down next to me on the bench as I hand him my lighter. I've seen him around here before, but we've never met until now. To this day, I wish it never happened.
He tells me his name, and I get caught in his eyes, as ours meet. It's not that I think he's hot, it's just those eyes. Something different. Hard. Dark. Addictive.
He has this air about him, like his surroundings don't affect him. Like he knows better. Like he's carrying a secret. A secret I want, and I immediately feel safer. We're sitting there, quietly smoking our cigarettes and I begin to breathe again. I feel lighter. His affect me on me is heavy, and I'm a little ashamed of it. I already don't want him to leave, and we've only just met not even ten minutes ago. Has that ever happened to you? like you've been missing a limb, and this person enters your bubble, reattaches your leg and tells you to walk? and you stand up, and start walking. That's how I felt next to Tyler. Just one look from him, with those dark, authoritative eyes, and I'd move. Something about him, gave me the courage to get the fuck up and keep fighting. He must have gotten the vibe too, because from that cigarette onward, we we're always together. He put his arm around me, picked me up off the cold, rough ground, and set me upright. We didn't even talk about it, not even a whisper. We never had to, it was an internal dialogue, played out by the both of us. He spoke with a kind of guiding supremacy, that plugged into me, a confidence and will I would not have found without him. Like I said earlier, this wasn't a love thing, neither of us were down for that. It just wasn't there, but was there, was this heat. This pulsing, live thing, born, and materialized, by our abrupt connection. He created for me, a place to hide away, a warm cocooned nest of denial and fantasy. The truth of my reality, becoming all the more easy to deny, when standing next to him. Tyler made everything feel sugar-coated. Even the most bad of things, becoming more livable through his eyes. Farther away. The cutting pain of my no so far way past, getting lost in the haze of my present place. Holding on to him, like a junkies last, and only fix. Black tar running through the veins. I was hooked. He knew it, I knew it. He did nothing to stop my fall in the end, except keep his mouth shut and go on with his life. He'll leave me in the dust, when it counts, showing me again, how truly alone I really am. I'll have a scar in my heart, belonging just to him. He won't even know it, and we'll never smile again with each other. I'll wonder, even now, if he ever actually cared about me. If he was looking too. For that one person. The one person who'll accept his hook, and willingly, hang from it in ignorance and weakness. Like I was. In my gut I'll know the truth, and remember her face.
 The girl hanging from my hook, while I'm hanging off of Tyler's.
 I'm not innocent.
 I'm a puppeteer.
 Just as much as he is.
 Pulling her strings, will fully ignorant to the damage.
 The three of us, tied together by hot, cutting barb wire.

One of them.

Because the majority of my teenage years we're spent in the system, most of my friends, and acquaintances we're also from the system. Kids who we're running rampant in the disease of our city. The ally kids, the downtown street hustlers. Kids who we're there by their personal choices and actions, and some by no fault of their own. Kid's with no foundation, children of severe addicts and low-life bottom feeders. These are the kid's that break your heart. The ones, who we're born into a situation, you could never imagine for yourself. Or, your own children for that matter.  For example, this one guy, who will always jutt out in my mind. He was one of those white guys who wore do-rags and let his pants slide far down his ass. Who talked with a gangster accent, and always acted like he was planning some next big hustle. To meet him at first, your impression would be one of judgement. For sure. His act and facade was so obvious, you'd feel sorry for the guy.
 He rarely shared his business with any of us, keeping to himself, and was often locked up in his room for hours on end. We'd be banging on his door, harassing him to come smoke weed with us or whatever, but when he was busy in there, nothing could get him to come out.
Turns out, over time, I found out that he was cooking crack in those confined hours of his room. Cooking crack to sell, so he could financially provide for his Mom and Dad, who we're out on the street. Both of them being severe addicts. This made his behavior and stress level all the more understood. He'd be gone for hours out in the street, hustling his way to make enough money to pay for a hotel room. For his parents. Knowing full well that if he didn't make it that day, they'd be sleeping outside somewhere, and it would be on his head.
 Could you imagine? the kind of weight that would put on a kid? I couldn't. I'm blessed to have amazing parents, who would NEVER expect me to carry their financial burdens, or keep them off the street for that matter. But this was his reality. This was what he understood about life, and to him, it was normal.
One night, I happened to find him outside. He was sitting on the front steps, holding his face in his hands. It was night time, late.I sat down next to him, and reached out to help. He was crying, and embarrassed to be doing in front of me. Hardly breathing in between each quiet and controlled sob. I hate when guys cry, it friggin' kills me.
 He was upset, because he hadn't made enough cash that day, and was heartbroken and scared for his Mom. He couldn't find her anywhere, and even if he did, he didn't have the means to pay for her shelter.He told me, he had been out looking for her for two days. No sign of her at all, even his Dad was at a loss over it. Obviously, what could be said. I'd be ignorant to tell him it would all work out, that he'd find his Mom and we'd figure it out somehow. So, I just sat there with him. Quiet. Understanding, so young still, that this world doesn't give anyone a break. No matter how young you are, or awful it is. So many things about living at the Y, taught me that this world is dark and unforgiving. Every single day being knocked down, one notch at a time. Even now, I still think of him every so often. Feeling guilty almost, that I had been given an easier out. Not that my out was easy, but at least I knew my family was safe. That I was in no way responsible for their future, or well-being. The Y, was filled with a medley of people, with situations similar to this, some worse than others. Some vastly different. All in all, it was a place of struggle. Survival of the fittest. If you didn't have your back up all the time, you'd likely get crushed under the chaos. Fast.
 Something happens though, when you spend time with people like this. You begin to care. A lot. You find yourself, believing and agreeing with the fact that you've all  been victimized. This mentality sets in and you begin to hate the world and want nothing to do with it. You morph and transform into this hard, angry thing. You begin to defend your community, a community that even a couple weeks ago you had disdain for. You become one of them, and at one point, that makes you feel safer. Like your part of some vigilante group or something, some self-made gang of sorts. That's where the life altering lie sets in. That you belong here now, and you sign your soul away to the circumstances you're in and the people surrounding it. That you created, all together. You convince yourself at some point, that this is how it's supposed to be now, and that comforts you in a sick and twisted way.
 Yay, for ignorance and denial.
 Yay, for being sixteen.
  

On your own, kid.

I've always had this unspoken rule. Don't make friends with people in your apartment building. If you live in a nice building, with condo fees and manicured lawn, rule doesn't apply. Being that most of your neighbours would kindly give you a cup of sugar, and unlikely rob your house. It's plainly obvious that the Y, was not such a building, far from it. Instead of a lawn, there is a concrete staircase, littered with smokers and drug dealers, and instead of sugar, your neighbour busts down your door at three in the morning, drunk and high, looking for his girlfriend. Just an example.
Like I said, I did try and stay away as much as possible. Even going to N.A meetings a few times a week with a friend. Anything to keep me from sitting in the quiet confines of my room.He would pull up in his car, Wu-Tang blasting out of the speakers, and we would drive over to the community center. The same community center my Mom would take me too on weekends as a kid. When we would go to her meetings. Three times a weekend, like clock work. I knew a lot of the people here because of those weekends. It's kind of like a family reunion, where you get those strangers who tell you they knew you when you 'this big'. Except it's peppered with awkward shame. Hi, I'm an addict. Fiddling with your hands, trying not to look them in the eye. Finding a seat far in the back.
At the time, I didn't even know if I was an addict. I just wanted to be somewhere safe.
The meeting would wrap up, and we would all go out to the coffee shop to sit outside, smoke cigarettes and talk. Honestly, the entire time I was there, at the coffee shop, I dreaded having to leave. I dreaded it so much, not wanting to go back to the building. Everything scared me. The drug dealers on the front steps. The drunk native man who tried to grab my ankles when I walked by to get inside the building. Cursing and spitting hate at me. The man overdosing on heroin in the lobby, surrounded by paramedics. The foul smelling elevator that brings me up to the sixth floor. The hospital like white walls leading me back to my room. The quiet inside of it. Leaving me with nothing but my thoughts, or sleep. So, there. I never wanted that time to end, the laughing, the company. The safety of it. The warmth. I wanted that cup of coffee to last hours and the ride home to never come. The ride home was worse then actually leaving. Hiding your tears, and staying strong is hard. Looking out the car window, feeling more lonely than you ever have in your life. Doing everything in your power to push down those tears about to cascade down your young and weary face. Wanting more than anything, to turn to the person next to you and just scream. Scream how scared you are, how you don't want to do this. For someone to take you home to your Mom and Dad and end this damn thing. You can't. There's no point, this is where your at, and nothings gonna change that. Except you, but you're sixteen and have no more heart. You've hurt your parents so much, that they CAN'T have you home, and you know it. As you close the car door, give that hug goodbye, you know it.
As you walk up the concrete steps, into the lobby and watch the elevator door close, you know it. That knowing, following you down the white hallway and through that blue door, into the small quiet room. That you are left with, just yourself now. That thought scares you so much you throw up, and cry like a five year old little girl on her way to kindergarten for the first time.
So, that one thing happens, when your just that lonely and afraid.
I  did what you knew best, and what I knew best was this. People.
 Find someone, who feels just like you do, and use them to create a place of safety and support. Everybody does it at some point or another. Use people in this way.Whether it be a dependency on a best friend, or an abusive partner, we all do it. We all find something to cling to, in our state of desperation. Little did I know, the people I chose, and the people that chose me, would lead us to a place so dark, I would lose my grip on myself completely. It's a miracle that I'm even sitting here to type you this. Honestly, it truly is. One tiny step farther, and I'd likely still be sitting in jail as of right now. No lie. By, the amazing grace of the Father, I'm not. By no choice of my own, He saved me. Before I finish this entry, I want to say something. I've never told this story before in detail, and I'm a little scared. I'm a little shaken at the thought. I need your prayer, if that's something you do. If you do, I want to say thank you in advance, because, it's time to have this out. There are so many things that could have been avoided back then, and I can't change that now. What I can do, is be as honest as I possibly can, in hopes that this gets back to someone who needs it. Using this nightmare as a way to warn the youth out there, that feel they truly have no other options. This is what happened to me, when I fell into that lie, but it doesn't have to be that way for everyone. There are choices, ALWAYS. Even if they seem thin and invisible. I wish someone had earnestly and openly confronted me with that back then, and you know I'm sure they did, and I was just too blind to see it. If you feel like someone you know could benefit from these entries, share them. I'm not writing all this down, just to get a rise out of you, or just to publish something gritty. It's because God wanted me to bare my life to others, to gain comfort from it, and to show his glory. Because I don't want this to only belong to me anymore, I want to build something from it that even I , couldn't imagine.
So, the story will continue, where fear and desperation take a young girl on her own, and all the while, I'll be needing your prayers. You are all amazing for supporting me in this journey, and I'm humbly grateful.

The Room with the blue door.

I was initially excited when I got the phone call from my worker. Telling me, she'd found me a place to live, and that Children's Aid would be paying the rent for up to three months. Excited, obviously, because I wouldn't have to be scrounging for safe places to sleep anymore, and finally would have a lasting roof  over my head. As for friends houses, I was running out of options. So, when I got the call, I sighed with relief as I put down the receiver. I'd seen the Y, lots of times before. Driving along the highway, that tall brown building, never missing the large white block letters. Y.M.C.A. It was across the street from my favorite museum. This beautiful castle type building, that kids used to be scared of, over the stories of it being haunted. I liked it anyways though, 'cause it was the one with all the taxidermy animals, and dinosaur fossils. In the future, I'll grow very weary of living at the Y, and begin to loathe that museum. It will haunt me when I walk past it, laughing at me, reminding me, the safety of my childhood is far behind me. I hate when that happens. When memories taint things. Objects. Places you like. Even people you love. I still weird out a bit, when I take my son there. I get over it quick, just seeing how happy he is, but I still get the gut twist when I see it. Not to mention, I completely just by-pass and ignore that the Y even exists. I hurt even looking at it. A building.
I remember my worker taking me up the elevator and guiding me down the white walled hallway. The doors to the rooms were dark blue. When she gave me the key my room, I was choked at how small it was. Honestly, the size of a jail cell. The walls were block concrete. But, who was I to complain, I'm pretty sure I slept outside at least twice this week. She handed me a small plastic card, told me there would be eight dollars a day on it to buy lunch in the cafeteria downstairs. Then she left. I'm pretty sure she'd had enough of my shit at this point, and didn't blame her for wanting to get out of here. I curled up on the single mattress and passed out for almost an entire day. It's funny how your body can keep you up for days, and then all of sudden, when it's safe to sleep, your gone.
My first week there, I did my best to stay out as much as possible. My tiny little room made me anxious and pent up. Since I didn't own much, the walls were bare and I had no t.v to keep me distracted, making my room feel more like a jail cell then it already looked. I spent a lot of time as far away from the Y as I could, which looking back, was the best thing. I should have stayed away longer. It's not a building that creates the bad memories, it's the people, the whack ass, dysfunctional situations you get into, when you surround yourself with people in the same situation you're in. A bad one. When you involve yourself so deeply with a group of people that they become family to you. As this family, instead of getting better and working towards a more sustainable future, you choose to all get lost together. Creating a shit storm none of you can stop. That is exactly what happened.

Run, baby, run.

It's strange, to sit here quietly on my couch, close my eyes and relive a time in my life I've always just wanted to push away. That ten years of extreme intensity. The drugs, the crime, the people. Sometimes it feels  like a mirage of something that never existed. Like I'm a fly on the wall in someone else's story. It's heavy to realize, over and over again, that this story is my own. I have to be choosy now, with what I share, and when. The hole is getting deeper, and I need to wise up enough, not to let myself get lost in it. These are memories, not a novel I'm making up along the way. It could potentially be dangerous, not to process this all properly, and just type it out in a never-ending frenzy of expression. Which is so like me to do, because, I'm restless.
I've been thinking about where to go from here, my mind going right back to cold confines of the jail.  I want to talk about the stage leading up to my arrest. The life choices and circumstances that carried me to this place. I think it's more important then even being in jail, at all really. I will get back to the rest of my time in prison, but I want to stop and hang out here for a bit.
Jail, was an end. Life before it, was, a scary place.  This very small span of time, a few short months, in between rehab, and incarceration. Yes, I got out of rehab, and within months I was in jail. Classy stuff.
I never graduated the rehab program. I was stubborn as shit. I didn't like it, it was bullshit, that's all there was to it. Total tunnel vision. So, after eleven months of pushing back, they finally kicked me out. I was SO happy. All it took was a little scrap with one of the girls to get me there. Had I of known, I probably would have instigated it earlier. I was very mature, if you hadn't already noticed.
There was only one place that would accept me back, after my spit in the face. My old group home. I think I lasted there a few weeks, before I took off. This being nothing new, since I had over three hundred A.W.O.L's on my record by the time I was sixteen. Like I said, I'm restless and running away was an addiction stronger than any drug I've faced since. The staff even had to go so far, in the past, to lock up all my shoes in the staff office. Always. I don't know if I mentioned this before, me living in a group home,but I did. I don't really have much to say about it right now. Let's just move on from there. I left. With the clothes on my back and a nap sack filled with socks, underwear, and deodorant. Five dollars in my jean pocket, and a heart of pure stone. I just couldn't stay there. That house, instilled in me a kind of anxiety I just couldn't fight. Couldn't before, and certainly couldn't now.
It had been over a year since I had lived there last, and nothing had changed, except for the new load of way ward teen girls filling the rooms of the house. Apparently, I was so stoked to leave rehab, at the time, I didn't realize I would be walking right back to the same shit life I had entered rehab from. So, suffice to say, my being able to fight the urge for freedom was short lived. Making the choice to leave took a matter of seconds, like a drug relapse. I called a shelter downtown and just left. I remember sitting on the bus, knowing full well, I had just dug myself a deeper grave, but also knowing, that nothing was going to convince me to turn around and act on the sound advice to stay. Give it a chance. In my mind, no one gave me chances. No one actually gave a shit why I did the things I did. No one understood me. So, I HAD to go.  Nothing and no one could convince me that waiting out my time there was a proactive thing to do. Because I've always had severe tunnel vision, my options always seemed slim. There was no grey area with me. All or nothing, and since I couldn't give my all in that house, with those rotating staff, my only option was to give nothing. Just give up. That's exactly what I did. I ignored the pleas of the staff I'd known for years, fell victim to anxiety of sitting still, turned my back and walked away.
When I hit the front steps of the shelter, the weight of my choice felt all the more heavy. I don't know what I was expecting, I mean shelters aren't the effin' Four Seasons. I just didn't expect the smell. Rank, putrid and sticky. Everything about this place felt sinister. Dark. Sad. Hopeless. I knew immediately that yet again, I wouldn't be able to trust anyone here. It was likely I shouldn't be trusted either. Can't blame them, can't blame me. It's just the name of the game. I decided right then and there, I would only be staying here for as short a time as possible. Who wouldn't. That notion sticking in me deeper, as I was taken to my room. It was tiny, and I'd be sharing it with a three hundred pound woman, who did not shower. Good times. I was given a locker for my minimal amount of belongings, with no lock. I'd be carrying my stuff on me, here on in, you'd be surprised at what homeless people will steal, as in everything they can get their hands on. Everyone needs socks and pit stick. The smallest of things become luxury when your out on the street. I'd be learning this lesson, again, very soon. I cried myself to sleep that night, feeling the dread grow in my guts. Knowing I had made a bad choice, but was too stubborn and pissed off to change it. I stayed at the shelter a total of three nights, and was swiftly kicked out for threatening one of the girls, who had slept with a guy I was into. Who knew, a reasonably healthy treat would send me on my way. Zero-tolerance wasn't a statement I tended to listen to. She had ran right to the director, who had immediately called the police to have me removed. I'd say nothing to the cops, except and kindly screw you and let me go. I would then spend an entire week with nowhere to go, and nowhere to sleep, since I had officially burnt every bridge available to me. Except one. The Y. M.C.A.  That tall brown building, with rows upon rows of glass windows. Housing for a barrage of the down and out. From refugees, to abused women and children, to the elderly.
It was a cess pool of filth, poverty and drug abuse.
 A catalyst to my rash crime spree.

Stand.

 I feel like I've been walking around in a haze of numbing sickness for weeks. This morning, finally, rising out of the fog. My eyes blinking away the fever induced sleep. Rubbing away the itch and beginning to focus. Relieved to feel my brain functioning for the first time in days. Begin to process, without the thick weight of a migraine, never mind the ass kicking cold I got on top of it. Lame. The entire week all I wanted to do was feel better so I could write. When I found out about my Grandma's cancer, that feeling multiplied, and I stared at this screen for hours. Wanting it out, anything, please, so I can feel better. It didn't happen, and my fever just got worse. I had this nagging feeling that something was stirring, and once I found the words, it would all settle. I was right, except for one thing. It would only happen on God's watch. The shitty thing about that, was this. I was so wrapped up in my dread, sickness, and frustration that being open to God's word and help was impossible. All I could see was this laptop screen. All I could feel, was urgency to get better. This insatiable desire to be clean and out from under.As much as I'm a Christ Follower, I was still clinging to this instant gratification. Grabbing for it violently, selfishly. If He listened to me, like He says He does, then he'll help me feel better. He'll give me the word to soothe and guide me. Especially when I'm on my knees, desperate. When it doesn't happen, in my weakness, I'll become hardened, impatient. Hindering my trust in him all the more. Digging a deeper hole. Casting myself farther away. When I was younger, newer in my journey, I would just stay in that place. Abandoned, and deeply hurt. Truly believing that God left me there, from some fault of my own, that I could not overcome. Heart sick for Him, again. Never-ending. Like God and I, have this star-crossed lovers kind of relationship. Always chasing.
It's really sad actually, and I do imagine, other people feel this way too. So, this is what's up...what I learned AGAIN this week.
This lesson kinda sucks, honestly.
We are responsible for our own free will. If I come to God in frustration, and leave my heart untouched and closed, all I'm going to receive is just that. Frustration. I'm choosing to come from that place, and to project that on God, in turn, giving me back what I put out. Ya dig?
I used to think, that when I came to Him like this, broken, angry and torn, that it was His responsibility to set me right emotionally. I'm the weak, He's not. He should do something about this. I can't feel this way, I'm loosing my mind. I would plead with Him, and get only stillness. Only quiet. I fought, for a long time, the belief, that I had something concrete to do with this. I didn't want to accept it. This should be easier. Well, friggin' too bad for me, it's just not like that. You do have to take responsibility for the agreements you've made with yourself. With the circumstances your in. For the feelings inside of your chest, the weight surrounding you. You do have to come to God with a willing heart, no matter the case you're in. Why? free will. God never said, he'd remove your pain, or suffering, without being willing. To be willing, you must trust. To trust is to have faith, and through faith, you find freedom. You find healing. God can't just smash through your free will, and do for you what you need, unless you're willing. If he could, or would for that matter, who would we be? under Him? no one. A person made without the ability to choose, is no longer a person. Take away my free will, and I learn nothing. I experience nothing. I have no purpose, no pulse, no drive. No life. I 'm certain, when I plead out to Him like that, with a closed heart, using my own free will against myself. It breaks His enormous perfect heart. He wants to lift me up, but only if I let Him. It's like when my kid is sick,but won't take his medicine. No matter how much I tell Him it'll help, and that I'm here for him, he has to want it. He may want my comfort , but he's gotta get through that Buckley's first. Ya dig?
I guess for me it means, putting down my blazing guns, and giving Him a chance. Sounds so easy, when I read it here. It's not. Fear and pain have a way of twisting my heart until it deceives me. A way of planting awful seeds in my mind. Thoughts and agreements that stunt my growth. Severely. It took a lot of strength, prayer and self-awareness, after this week, to even get to a place where I can try and articulate this all to you. I just wanted you to understand, like I understand as of today, again, that God respects and honours the free will He gave us. So much so, that He cannot get between it and, us. It kills Him, but He loves us enough to do what's best for us. Meaning, even when we think it's in our best interests, and we're exhausted, He will still wait patiently until we decide to give it up. Period. Because that's just how it has to be. He's not some half-assed parent figuring it out along the way like the rest of us. He's the perfect parent. Hard to wrap your head around, I know. I may still get pissed off at Him in the future, I'm sure I will, it's me, ha ha....but, from now on, I want to keep in it clear in my own heart, that He leaves me there, when I won't choose leave. That's just the truth. I have to be wise enough to quiet the inner chaos, and just breathe for a minute. Take responsibility even when I feel like a victim, and give it up. Like I said, it's a shitty lesson, but all in all, it shows how much God values our freedom to choose..and be well, human.
Thank you Father, for honouring me. For letting me choose, even when that choice hurts me. For walking with me patiently, even when I'm hindering my growth and falling victim to my grief. For being there, still, when I wake up, brush the cobwebs from my weary eyes, and finally let go.....where you meet me, with outstretched arms, lavish me in safety and comfort. Proving, yet again, that to be free, I must always be in surrender to you. In this surrender, I can let out that winded sigh of relief.  The one I've been craving and chasing after all week...and, I can write again. With all that being said, Father, my request is this. This week, as I continue to wade through my past, and move on with my memoirs, show me Your path. Tell me what to say, because, these entries are more Yours, than they are mine. I'd like to keep it that way.