Connecting with people matters so much to me, despite the fact I’ve failed so badly at it.

Not my fault in a way, given how I was raised. But anyway, my trials have not been too successful. I’m different, so people diss, dismiss, and reject me. They aren’t interested cuz I’m different. I’ve tried so hard. But I tend to talk too much, it seems. I’m interested in what other people have to say but I’m so desperate to speak that I probably don’t give them enough space. Perhaps I’m a “bore.” I try not to be and I’ve been told many times I’m a good conversationalist, but that doesn’t translate into long-term friends. I do have a few of those, but they aren’t the people who told me I’m a good conversationalist.

How the heck can I be lonely in an overpopulated world of 7 billion people? Dunno, but I am. So lonely.

Every time I spend time with people, I feel angst afterwards. I talked too much. I failed. Sorry to say this, and I don’t mean to be “negative” but my life is fail and I should not have been born.

Still I keep trying. Working on some huge changes right now, not that anyone cares.

My ex lives in the same building as me. More than 2 years since the separation, many moments of angst. I hate letting go.  But soon I’ll be moving far away. Torture.

Maybe I’ll actually get a life worth living, soon.

“Give me love, give me peace on earth.” An obscure album I bought in my teen years. I was a Beatles fan early.

Wish me luck. Suicide ain’t pretty, but neither is the pain of fuitile loneliness.


Feel good by doing the right thing.

That’s my insight for the day.

I’ve been keeping up with the biz podcasts. So many ridiculous businesses. Troll cakes – take some Internet troll insult, put it on a cake, and mail it to the troll? People spend money on that? What a waste of resources. Twenty-five bucks could have planted some trees or something. Made contraceptives available to people in third world countries.

Okay, people gotta have fun. I get that. But wooden bow ties? I’m not kidding. Fifty bucks for that, or a fancy wallet? Weird-ass shirts with a giant pocket over the entire front? Or even the endless POD t-shirt offers. Overpriced t-shirts, paying for a cute slogan. Art? Not really. Expressing yourself feels good, and that’s what such shirts are about. But ya know what? Expressing ourselves is a human characteristic that tends to be stifled generally. We don’t know how to handle honest speech. We don’t know how to listen. So, we purchase an approved form of communication, a safe form. Like stickers to ‘stick it to the man’ or magnet-messages for bad drivers. Amazing, fun, and so unnecessary. Like the essential oils blog full of woo advice, or the luxury tooth brushes – oh, sorry, “sustainable bamboo tooth brushes.” Right, sustainable. Or soy candles with essential oils “for the eco-conscious.” Just no.

That said, there are a lot of great businesses, too. And even the goofy ones provide meaningful lessons and how-to tips. Great podcast.

The difficulty is in seeing anything of value I could and would want to provide. I tend to be more frugal than frugal. And then I was thinking about what I really value. I really appreciate feeling good in my body. The massage school inexpensive therapeutic massage by gung-ho and talented students have been precious. I feel good. I want to feel good. That’s what people are often buying – something that feels good. The student I’m seeing this term is about to graduate. Graduate to a career where he’ll be greatly appreciated, no doubt. He’s talented. Wonderful non-pokey pressure, but he can also judiciously crush your fascial adhesions – a game changer for range of motion.

I wish I had that focus, talent, and ability to make people feel good. When you feel good, you don’t need a bunch of crap, to consume, buy, eat, indulge in. To use. I want people to feel good, but I also want to do good, do the right thing. I want people to feel good doing the right thing. Makes the right thing easier to do.




Been a while since I’ve posted – November, last year.

Still finding it odd there’s 7 billion people on this rock, but I’m lonely. Many are lonely.

At the same time, there seems to be not enough space. It’s hard to own a little cottage and a garden, even if you move out of town. Pretty much impossible to own your home in town, near university and all other exciting amenities. Few people in Vancouver can own their home and most are renters.

I’m trying to get out, even if that means into some house in the middle of nowhere, such as Williams Lake, Greenwood, Port Alberni, whatever.

I wanna grow my own veggies and be free from paying rent on someone else’s investment, and putting up with people clattering overhead, next door, and on the street passing by. The city is killing me, even as it is the source of Meetup buddies, dance classes, and other amenities.

The world doesn’t agree with me and every so often topping myself seems like an easy out.


Profoundly sad

I just want to be heard and understood. Not told that someone understands, but shown, to know that someone understands. Like the difference between bad literature that tells you meanings and emotions and good literature that evokes them in you.

About 15 years ago I had a counsellor who recognized my emotion and named it. He said I was profoundly sad. That was the most validation and understanding I have ever had.

Most people can’t do that. They just try to lard it over with some attempt to look at the bright side. They hope I had fun or enjoyed myself. Well, no, I didn’t. I was profoundly sad. I struggled through the battlefield because I am courageous, but it wasn’t fun, for fuck’s sake.

When I get a chance to dwell on the sadness and let it out, sometimes I take pictures. The cellphone makes that easy, a way to take multiple images with low cost and no effort. I have a whole folder of them, me frowning and face twisted in sorrow. Tears, an expression of anguish, and the easy inference that loud cries occurred at that time. I was alone, with no one to care for me, just me.  My validation of my own emotions.

I like looking at those pictures sometimes. A break from the rest of the world where sadness is pretty much banned. I would love to post a bunch of these pictures, but I am not going to show my face.



It’s been a tough couple of days for me, attending a conference. Hours of back to back presentations, while sitting on hard, low chairs. Oh, if only they had optional extra seat cushions for those of us with non-short legs. And loud networking sessions with so many voices clamouring like madly mating frogs.

I’m not used to being around a whole lot of people, period, never mind all day. There was a quiet half-hour where I was able to stretch my legs out on a couch and sort out where my mind and emotions were. I felt lonely in a crowd.

And now, at home, trying to sleep, my sorrow grows. I’ve never before felt the urge to press my hand against my neck and windpipe, but now I do. Maybe it’s an amplification of that old habit of breathing slowly and just letting my body rest without breathing in for a while. Something I discovered I found soothing.

My sorrow grieves the loss of life for me, loss of any value in life for me. Life was always more trouble than it was worth. I lost the chance to be treasured as a baby. I lost the chance to have a good relationship with my close sibling. I lost the chance to ever be really part of any group while growing up. I lost the chance to have my interests encouraged and nurtured so that my life grew up around me. I lost the chance to be aware of my own beauty as a young woman.

One day I found a picture of some cute girl about age 15-16 holding my cat. What? And she was wearing my dress or nightgown that I got for Christmas that year. And … she was me. I never knew at the time that I was “beautiful.” No one ever told me that. No, actually people called me “sir,” quite often!

And now I love to see the artistic beauty of belly dancers, and I love to do a bit of dancing myself. But how great it would have been to be able to do it back then. However, with no conscious connection to my own body, I could not do that. Back then, I was shy to look at myself in the mirror, except in private. Like, you wouldn’t catch me looking at my reflection in a store window or anywhere else public.

I lost the chance to study my interests or create a meaningful career. Or have friends or community connections.  I worked, but it wasn’t meaningful to me.

Time to lie down and try not breathing in, again.


The best thing that happened today didn’t. I didn’t get in a car accident, I didn’t totally lose a friend, and I didn’t shit myself during my dance class or any other time.

The dance teacher had a sore right upper trap and so I offered some massage. She also has fibromyalgia, she said, so I said if anything hurts, you must tell me to stop. At the end of the class she thanked me for this massage. At the beginning, she complimented my weird fashion belt, hand-me-down from my mother, which I use to hold in the bulge above the belly button. The diastasis/hernia bulge. I hate that bulge.

I hate all the bulges, the square ones on my hips that make them like a pumpkin ready to burst. The waist roll that makes all the hip movements look like nothing, as they are buried in fat. My face is a puffy moon, too. Eyes lost in a shapeless pool of jelly.

I have nothing. I have no joy, no solace, no refuge, no purpose. Well, my job search is a purpose, but rather than a soothing one, it’s anxiety-provoking. Hence the need for cider for soothing. Not that high in calories, but displacing my nutrition.

Ashamed of my life, my body, my fail.

My dance-class buddy sounded so relaxed when talking about the conference. Sounded excited that it would be a great opportunity. But I doubt myself, as I suck with people. If it’s about “fit” and people hiring you because they like you, then fuck it I am doomed. People DON’T like me, probably because I fear and thus don’t like them, overall. I mean I could like them in a way, as individuals, but it’s not like with an animal. With an animal, I like them all from the start. If I don’t like one as an individual, I probably like them more than people. I start with good will, with animals. With people, I start with fear.

So much for filling my evenings with learning. Worked for a couple days. Lately I’m very stressed from the conference push. The other day, when I started this post, I had cider and burned my mouth on pizza! I felt ashamed, and almost ready to blush even now, but on the other hand I can credit myself that I am exercising more, generally eating well, and feel my body getting firmer, not larger. Just sometimes I feel the grossness of it all and it overwhelms me for a while.

The conference starts in the morning. I’ve prepared as best I can to be calm, professional, curious, and to make my requests and mention my various intentions to as many people as possible, but in an appropriate way that feels right. So, up to now it’s shame/fail, and I am going to keep marching through my fear, as usual.

A void

A void

I’m writing into a void, but at least I’m writing, not avoiding. I wish I could tell people I know, but I’ve learned they don’t want to hear, so I’m going further afield. Maybe it will result in the same reaction: “Don’t wanna hear it. It’s a downer.”

It may be a downer, but it’s my downer. It’s my life.  My life that, according to nature, shouldn’t have been. But wait! Humans are part of nature, too. And humans, doctors, are what allowed me to be born. Saved my mother’s life during the gestation, and saved mine after the birth. And then let me rot in misery, of course. Life is sacred. But it’s all about quantity, long before quality.

And I like the good kind, so I tend to complain about quality.

I’m proud of myself for not just sitting back and taking it. Taking “the disability route,” hiding behind my curtains. My sister took that route, decided her mental and back issues were enough that she shouldn’t work. Her choice. I feel pretty disabled by being a social retard, but there’s no official category for that and apparently I don’t fit autism spectrum, nor am I paying two to three thousand bucks as an adult to confirm that. A diagnosis isn’t going to fix my life. I tend not to fit categories, anyway. As I said, I’m a unicorn – and not food-colouring rainbows like the current food fad, but a unicorn on a deeper level. My essence. And, no, I don’t fart rainbows.


Update: PS, the “rainbow” shown is actually a type of interpreted satellite image called a fringe. I borrowed the image and can’t remember from where, but there are many many similar images around. Sorry for the attribution fail! It won’t happen again.