After living in Toronto for almost 7 years and two years on a waiting list, I finally have a doctor in this city. Of course it was determined early on in the initial consultation that I needed a full physical, considering my last one took place around ten years ago. I almost panicked when my new doctor, whom at this point I have yet to establish a rapport with, casually paused mid-sentence after starting with "You are getting to that age..." and then she giggled because it's something she enjoys doing to her clients. What she was getting at was one of the components of a physical examination that I don't care for, the blood letting.
I'm not afraid of needles, I just get a little queasy when watching the tubes fill up with my life essence. So I don't watch. Many different experience levels of nurse have taken my blood over the years and even with a warning about how deep and uncooperative my veins are, the newbie vampires always seem to fuck it up. Why don't they listen me? Don't they think I know my own body? They end up believing me after several attempts, leaving multiple punctures and a lovely blue reminder (bruise) on my arm which lasts a week.
My ex-wife had the same trouble whenever she went to get blood taken. She would have horrible experiences with nurses poking right through veins, leaving complete forearms filled with blood. Perhaps her bad experiences led to our daughter now having a phobia of needles. I'm assured that some day she will conquer this fear but for now we have to go to extremes to get her the proper inoculations and blood work done. It pains me to see my little girl so crippled with fear that it goes beyond my understanding of how this could become such an issue for anyone.
Most people don't like being told how to do their job but in my line of work the customer is always right and I listen and include their input into what I do for them, especially if it's something new that I'm not as familiar with. My arm is new to you, newbie vampires, so please be a little more understanding and pay heed to my cautions because I may not know how to do what you are doing but I do know how my body reacts to it when done the wrong way. I'm the customer, hear me roar.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Stick to your brushes
The universe was bent on me learning early what was to come from working in the field of art. The idea of having to stand up for my work was not common to a high school student who was top of his class and the big fish. Anything I did was praised and held as the standard for others to measure up to. This all changed when I got to college and became the small fish. I was unprepared for explaining and defending my artistic integrity.
Case in point was art history class where we were to pick a contemporary artist from the last 100 years to study, make a presentation and do an art project based on the artist's style. The presentation went very smoothly with a slide projector displaying my artist, Jasper Johns' best works using plaster casts and encaustic painting skills. The project, however took a different turn because the outline for it was to create a car license plate using blue marker and white paper in the style of our artist. But my artist wouldn't follow those parameters, so I didn't.
I thought it was a very insightful way for me to get to know the artist I had studied by walking in his footsteps and doing the project the way he would. I created a plaster cast of my nose and affixed it onto the centre of a canvas the same size as a car license plate. Then I proceeded to paint the plate encaustic style by mixing pigment into heated wax. It was not easy but it was fun and exciting to see how JJ must have felt when working with such an organic medium. My professor wasn't so excited by my dedication to my own style of learning.
He basically said he would fail me if I handed in what I had done because it wasn't done according to the assignment sheet. At the time I took the standpoint that my artist's style would be to not do the assignment according to this professor's specifications but that held no water with the stubborn drunkard. I contemplated taking it to the Dean level but my 'people pleaser' nature kicked in and I went back to the drawing board to create something mediocre to make someone else happy. I resigned to being happy to have had the experience of trying a new art medium and succeeding at it even if it wasn't what was expected.
To this day I think that if I had pushed back after already having pushed the envelope that things would have worked out differently. I do understand the point of following directions and giving the 'client' what he asked for but this was a silly project to begin with considering how narrow the outline was to incorporate the diverse selection of acceptable artists we could study. What I have learned over the years is that yes, there are times to give in and then there are times to stick to your brushes and maintain the integrity of your creativity.
Case in point was art history class where we were to pick a contemporary artist from the last 100 years to study, make a presentation and do an art project based on the artist's style. The presentation went very smoothly with a slide projector displaying my artist, Jasper Johns' best works using plaster casts and encaustic painting skills. The project, however took a different turn because the outline for it was to create a car license plate using blue marker and white paper in the style of our artist. But my artist wouldn't follow those parameters, so I didn't.
I thought it was a very insightful way for me to get to know the artist I had studied by walking in his footsteps and doing the project the way he would. I created a plaster cast of my nose and affixed it onto the centre of a canvas the same size as a car license plate. Then I proceeded to paint the plate encaustic style by mixing pigment into heated wax. It was not easy but it was fun and exciting to see how JJ must have felt when working with such an organic medium. My professor wasn't so excited by my dedication to my own style of learning.
He basically said he would fail me if I handed in what I had done because it wasn't done according to the assignment sheet. At the time I took the standpoint that my artist's style would be to not do the assignment according to this professor's specifications but that held no water with the stubborn drunkard. I contemplated taking it to the Dean level but my 'people pleaser' nature kicked in and I went back to the drawing board to create something mediocre to make someone else happy. I resigned to being happy to have had the experience of trying a new art medium and succeeding at it even if it wasn't what was expected.
To this day I think that if I had pushed back after already having pushed the envelope that things would have worked out differently. I do understand the point of following directions and giving the 'client' what he asked for but this was a silly project to begin with considering how narrow the outline was to incorporate the diverse selection of acceptable artists we could study. What I have learned over the years is that yes, there are times to give in and then there are times to stick to your brushes and maintain the integrity of your creativity.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
I don't like men, um...
This was something I said aloud recently, followed by my daughter and I pausing to stare at each other in suspension of disbelief then simultaneously burst out laughing. The comment sounded strange out of context of what we were talking about and we couldn't get over the irony of it considering my sexual preference. What proceeded this comment was a conversation about how I get along much better with women in the workplace or as friends then I do with men. But in general, I do like men, for the most part.
I can't lump all men into the same category and perhaps we should start with my category, I'm sensitive. You thought I was going to say gay but not all gay men are sensitive and not all sensitive men are gay so let's steer clear of generalizing sexuality when this is more of a question of mentality.
It's no question that type A personalities and the sensitive man are a deadly combination. These men have always made it harder for me to function properly in a workplace because I am chill and prefer to handle things with the soft side rather than making demands and throwing around threats. Type A women who I've encountered are either much easier to crack through their tough exterior with my charm or I write them off completely as ball busting bitches who have set out to prove something. Perhaps more on that topic later.
Men as friends has always been more of a challenge for me. My exwife used to say that straight men don't want to be my friend because they might be seen as gay. Oh how times have changed since the 90's. I now have to bring sexuality into this because when it comes to friendships I have noticed a huge difference in terms of which sex and sexual preference make for better friends.
Gay men make horrible friends. Maybe I have bad luck but I have found that they are either too busy being single or too busy being married and are always super self-centered which drives me crazy considering I have been depended upon by others with great success. Straight men who are secure in their own sexuality and have no problem with befriending gay men make great friends for me and there really should be a name for them. (ie fag hag, fruit fly; for women friends of gay men) For some reason these straight dudes know the importance of punctuality and understand when I over communicate or just want to hang out without some big party night planned where I have to dress a certain way or use product in my hair.
Overall, there are aspects of men that I don't like in both gay and straight varieties. I always say that I'm the straightest gay man or the gayest straight man you'll ever meet.
I can't lump all men into the same category and perhaps we should start with my category, I'm sensitive. You thought I was going to say gay but not all gay men are sensitive and not all sensitive men are gay so let's steer clear of generalizing sexuality when this is more of a question of mentality.
It's no question that type A personalities and the sensitive man are a deadly combination. These men have always made it harder for me to function properly in a workplace because I am chill and prefer to handle things with the soft side rather than making demands and throwing around threats. Type A women who I've encountered are either much easier to crack through their tough exterior with my charm or I write them off completely as ball busting bitches who have set out to prove something. Perhaps more on that topic later.
Men as friends has always been more of a challenge for me. My exwife used to say that straight men don't want to be my friend because they might be seen as gay. Oh how times have changed since the 90's. I now have to bring sexuality into this because when it comes to friendships I have noticed a huge difference in terms of which sex and sexual preference make for better friends.
Gay men make horrible friends. Maybe I have bad luck but I have found that they are either too busy being single or too busy being married and are always super self-centered which drives me crazy considering I have been depended upon by others with great success. Straight men who are secure in their own sexuality and have no problem with befriending gay men make great friends for me and there really should be a name for them. (ie fag hag, fruit fly; for women friends of gay men) For some reason these straight dudes know the importance of punctuality and understand when I over communicate or just want to hang out without some big party night planned where I have to dress a certain way or use product in my hair.
Overall, there are aspects of men that I don't like in both gay and straight varieties. I always say that I'm the straightest gay man or the gayest straight man you'll ever meet.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
The firebug doesn't fall too far from the tree
py·ro·ma·ni·a [pahy-ruh-mey-nee-uh, -meyn-yuh] a compulsion to set things on fire.
Firebugs run rampant in my family. One time when we were driving past a whole street of 1 & 1/2 story war-time row houses (probably about 30 of them all connected with little front porches and tinier front lawns) when my mother pointed out the one where her paternal grandmother had lived. This great grandmother of mine had passed away when my mother was young so I had never met her. I have been fortunate enough to have met one of my great grandparents, which I'll talk about another time. But this grandmother of my mom's was a pretty tough British lass who danced to the beat of her own drum.
One of her peculiarities was a particular incident, which my mother's father (son of said lass) denied adamantly. You know those BBQs that were basically a giant pan on an aluminum tripod in which you placed coals with a grill laid on top? Well, apparently the coals weren't enough to get a good flame going for great grandma so she started breaking up kitchen chairs and placing them on top of the grill. I'm pretty sure she wasn't that interested in cooking anything at that point and to the passersby on the sidewalk, this might look a little odd. At least my sister had enough sense to keep it to the back yard.
Fast forward 40 years and my sister is now living in the country with a medium sized piece of land behind her modest country home. Her husband works with small machinery and in his spare time volunteers for the local fire department. Imagine his surprise when he came home from work one day to find my sister in the backyard with friends and an old bedroom dresser aflame in the fire pit, flames reaching higher than the height of the house. Where do these women in my family get these ideas?
When I was a teenager we had a recreational vehicle in a park which included our own personal fire pit. This is where our father taught us the responsibilities of creating a fire and respecting the power of the open flame. How to build it using newspaper and kindling, when to add new logs and when to stoke the coals to burn every part of the firewood. Never did I see him use lighter fluid or burn anything other than the wood we had purchased. Perhaps bylaws are different from my great grandmother's time and even different in other parts of the province. Perhaps the women in my family are just firebugs.
Firebugs run rampant in my family. One time when we were driving past a whole street of 1 & 1/2 story war-time row houses (probably about 30 of them all connected with little front porches and tinier front lawns) when my mother pointed out the one where her paternal grandmother had lived. This great grandmother of mine had passed away when my mother was young so I had never met her. I have been fortunate enough to have met one of my great grandparents, which I'll talk about another time. But this grandmother of my mom's was a pretty tough British lass who danced to the beat of her own drum.
One of her peculiarities was a particular incident, which my mother's father (son of said lass) denied adamantly. You know those BBQs that were basically a giant pan on an aluminum tripod in which you placed coals with a grill laid on top? Well, apparently the coals weren't enough to get a good flame going for great grandma so she started breaking up kitchen chairs and placing them on top of the grill. I'm pretty sure she wasn't that interested in cooking anything at that point and to the passersby on the sidewalk, this might look a little odd. At least my sister had enough sense to keep it to the back yard.
Fast forward 40 years and my sister is now living in the country with a medium sized piece of land behind her modest country home. Her husband works with small machinery and in his spare time volunteers for the local fire department. Imagine his surprise when he came home from work one day to find my sister in the backyard with friends and an old bedroom dresser aflame in the fire pit, flames reaching higher than the height of the house. Where do these women in my family get these ideas?
When I was a teenager we had a recreational vehicle in a park which included our own personal fire pit. This is where our father taught us the responsibilities of creating a fire and respecting the power of the open flame. How to build it using newspaper and kindling, when to add new logs and when to stoke the coals to burn every part of the firewood. Never did I see him use lighter fluid or burn anything other than the wood we had purchased. Perhaps bylaws are different from my great grandmother's time and even different in other parts of the province. Perhaps the women in my family are just firebugs.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
The rock in a stormy sea
Somehow this has become my lot in life. People seem to be drawn to me who I feel are the storms in my solid hold on reality. I never understood why until now, I am their anchor. the strong and friendly harbour where they can dock for all the comforts of home, a warm bed, a hot meal and the security of my calming presence. But where does that leave me? In the eye of the storm with the fringes of their turmoil still lingering on the edges of our seemingly happy life together. Threatening fringes.
These fringes tend to come inland and rock the foundation of what I have built for myself and all that has been shared with them. When this happens I am wonder struck, as if it was unexpected. To the outside observer I am unfazed with a silent strength, not panicking and running through the town with arms flailing, crying hysterically 'why me'. What they don't see is inside I am excessively worried about keeping it all together for the sake of my loved ones who have come to depend on my stoic exterior in the face of adversity. The panic is internal, which can have even more detrimental effects on me in the end.
When does the rock get so eroded that it just falls away from it's foundation, leaving the storms to search for other places to find refuge? The trick is not letting it get to that point. The solution is finding an outlet. Well, this is one. But I could use something more physical which will release the necessary chemicals into my system to counteract the stress. The obvious answer is opening that yoga mat I was given as a Christmas gift. Seems to be inline with the whole centered theme I have going on with relationships. This rock needs centering. Ohm.
These fringes tend to come inland and rock the foundation of what I have built for myself and all that has been shared with them. When this happens I am wonder struck, as if it was unexpected. To the outside observer I am unfazed with a silent strength, not panicking and running through the town with arms flailing, crying hysterically 'why me'. What they don't see is inside I am excessively worried about keeping it all together for the sake of my loved ones who have come to depend on my stoic exterior in the face of adversity. The panic is internal, which can have even more detrimental effects on me in the end.
When does the rock get so eroded that it just falls away from it's foundation, leaving the storms to search for other places to find refuge? The trick is not letting it get to that point. The solution is finding an outlet. Well, this is one. But I could use something more physical which will release the necessary chemicals into my system to counteract the stress. The obvious answer is opening that yoga mat I was given as a Christmas gift. Seems to be inline with the whole centered theme I have going on with relationships. This rock needs centering. Ohm.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Lies hurt others first, then you
My very first lie was when I was around 6 years old. It was wintertime and my mother had just given me the speech about not putting my tongue on anything metal outdoors or it would freeze to it. I shared this new piece of information with a neighbourhood friend who was a year younger than me and she threw down the challenge. She suggested that if I was quick enough that my tongue wouldn't stick and I would have then proven my mother wrong. Being the silly little boy that I was, I went along with her little plan, understanding that she would also do it.
As fast as I was, I wasn't fast enough to get a tiny piece of the tip of my tongue pulled off when I yanked back from the metal window sill of the school across the street from both of our houses. It was bleeding ever so slightly but somehow my mother saw this injury (proving mother's intuition) and questioned me about it. My friend had helped me concoct the perfect lie prior to us leaving the scene of the crime, claiming that my best friend had punched me in the face.
Because it was believed that this happened at school, a note was sent to my teacher which created another note for my friend to take to his parents. When I asked my mother what happened she explained that my friend had been given a spanking and reprimanded for his bad behaviour. Upon hearing this, guilt set in and I confessed that he hadn't really hit me. I told her the truth about what I had did and a new note went to school the next morning, not before I received my first spanking ever.
I don't remember if I remained friends with that boy but I highly doubt he did with me. I, of course, remained friends with the neighbourhood girl who would end up hurting me again because I was such a pushover back then. It was revealed years later that after my father had administered the spanking (via folded belt) he cried. This was somewhat surprising to me since I always looked at my father as a tough guy who worked hard and played hard but didn't have a soft side. As a father myself now, I understand how that felt. I feel bad for having put him through that.
As fast as I was, I wasn't fast enough to get a tiny piece of the tip of my tongue pulled off when I yanked back from the metal window sill of the school across the street from both of our houses. It was bleeding ever so slightly but somehow my mother saw this injury (proving mother's intuition) and questioned me about it. My friend had helped me concoct the perfect lie prior to us leaving the scene of the crime, claiming that my best friend had punched me in the face.
Because it was believed that this happened at school, a note was sent to my teacher which created another note for my friend to take to his parents. When I asked my mother what happened she explained that my friend had been given a spanking and reprimanded for his bad behaviour. Upon hearing this, guilt set in and I confessed that he hadn't really hit me. I told her the truth about what I had did and a new note went to school the next morning, not before I received my first spanking ever.
I don't remember if I remained friends with that boy but I highly doubt he did with me. I, of course, remained friends with the neighbourhood girl who would end up hurting me again because I was such a pushover back then. It was revealed years later that after my father had administered the spanking (via folded belt) he cried. This was somewhat surprising to me since I always looked at my father as a tough guy who worked hard and played hard but didn't have a soft side. As a father myself now, I understand how that felt. I feel bad for having put him through that.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Got Ink?
To tattoo or not to tattoo? Getting a tattoo has been an ongoing internal struggle for me over the last 10 years, since I grew up with a tattooed father who may or may not have been treated differently because of them. I know he thought he was a bad ass. Granted, in those days it was a class status thing to not have your body marred by tattoos or piercings but it's a different world now and everyone seems to be getting ink done, young or old, alternative or straight-laced. Grandmas and bankers can have strategically placed tattoos to express themselves without getting publicly judged by old school thinkers.
My concern is what I've seen from some family and friends who get carried away with the love of tattoos. They end up with larger, quite visible creations that cannot be covered by clothes all of the time. They also go so far as to cover mass amounts of their bodies with multiple styles and colours, looking more like a mish mash of ideas rather than something well thought out and perfectly placed to enhance their bodies. Isn't the purpose of these body alterations to enhance rather than just fill a blank canvas? Maybe that is just how I view them.
The next thing that I have seen recently is couples getting matching tattoos. Mind you, they are not getting each others names, which would and has proven embarrassing. They are usually symbols of something the two of them have taken on as a business or shared interest and are actually quite graphically pleasing. But again, if said relationship ends, what now for the permanent mark on your bodies that signifies a specific time period and person in your life. Hopefully it would still be something the two of you treasure and the meaning would not be lost with the partnership. But how can you tell?
For my tattoo, I have considered one motif that is mainly about myself and secondarily about my daughter, which is a tie that binds, granted I don't totally screw up as a father. In any event, I highly doubt I would regret a tattoo with such an emotional bond. I've considered doing this to celebrate my coming birthday but sadly funds are not permitting. I'm also worried about putting an artist through the ringer with my perfectionism in what they interpret from my ideas, hesitant to commit to something being permanently pressed into my skin with no 'undo' button.
My concern is what I've seen from some family and friends who get carried away with the love of tattoos. They end up with larger, quite visible creations that cannot be covered by clothes all of the time. They also go so far as to cover mass amounts of their bodies with multiple styles and colours, looking more like a mish mash of ideas rather than something well thought out and perfectly placed to enhance their bodies. Isn't the purpose of these body alterations to enhance rather than just fill a blank canvas? Maybe that is just how I view them.
The next thing that I have seen recently is couples getting matching tattoos. Mind you, they are not getting each others names, which would and has proven embarrassing. They are usually symbols of something the two of them have taken on as a business or shared interest and are actually quite graphically pleasing. But again, if said relationship ends, what now for the permanent mark on your bodies that signifies a specific time period and person in your life. Hopefully it would still be something the two of you treasure and the meaning would not be lost with the partnership. But how can you tell?
For my tattoo, I have considered one motif that is mainly about myself and secondarily about my daughter, which is a tie that binds, granted I don't totally screw up as a father. In any event, I highly doubt I would regret a tattoo with such an emotional bond. I've considered doing this to celebrate my coming birthday but sadly funds are not permitting. I'm also worried about putting an artist through the ringer with my perfectionism in what they interpret from my ideas, hesitant to commit to something being permanently pressed into my skin with no 'undo' button.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Gullible me AKA Gullible's travels
I have always had a more innocent outlook on life and people and the world, believing that everyone has the best intentions and in turn would be doing right by those around them. Wrongo! Sometimes I feel so gullible. Even after being conned I end up giving people a second chance, hoping that they are going to surprise me next time. I recently learned that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results. Am I insane?
Please don't answer that. What I can tell you is that this has been going on for some time. Going right back to childhood when I had friends that basically used me for what I could offer them, toys, an alibi, a ride or even a place to crash. All the while promising to be my friend until it was time for me to ask for something in return, only be be turned down. Did I misinterpret the terms of our friendship? Are my expectations not in line with theirs? Fine, but why do I expect them to change their tune the next time?! Hoping for maturity and growth. Not everyone learns this and probably not from getting their own way.
My behaviour would also exhibit the signs of being a people pleaser which I acknowledge I am and also know where I got it from. For many years I have watched, and still do, my mother jump through hoops to please her family and friends. She will do anything for you and feel guilty when she can't. I don't want to end up like that in 20 years, a bundle of nerves when someone shows their true colours of being a user after putting myself out there to help them. Feeling like a failure.
This is why I have adopted the old adage: fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me. No longer will obvious eff-ups get a second chance when there are so many other people in this world who would actually benefit from my assistance and actually appreciate it. Instead of thinking they just discovered the guy they can rely on for freebies. Watch yourself because I'm now watching out for you.
Please don't answer that. What I can tell you is that this has been going on for some time. Going right back to childhood when I had friends that basically used me for what I could offer them, toys, an alibi, a ride or even a place to crash. All the while promising to be my friend until it was time for me to ask for something in return, only be be turned down. Did I misinterpret the terms of our friendship? Are my expectations not in line with theirs? Fine, but why do I expect them to change their tune the next time?! Hoping for maturity and growth. Not everyone learns this and probably not from getting their own way.
My behaviour would also exhibit the signs of being a people pleaser which I acknowledge I am and also know where I got it from. For many years I have watched, and still do, my mother jump through hoops to please her family and friends. She will do anything for you and feel guilty when she can't. I don't want to end up like that in 20 years, a bundle of nerves when someone shows their true colours of being a user after putting myself out there to help them. Feeling like a failure.
This is why I have adopted the old adage: fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me. No longer will obvious eff-ups get a second chance when there are so many other people in this world who would actually benefit from my assistance and actually appreciate it. Instead of thinking they just discovered the guy they can rely on for freebies. Watch yourself because I'm now watching out for you.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Out with the old, in with the new-ish
Well, well, well, here we are at the end of a most interesting year for not only me, but most of the people I know. 2011 wasn't as kind to others as expected and collectively we are not sad to see it go. It was a year of change and transition with some loose ends and other finalities. If you had a good year then kudos to you. I don't mind leaving some things behind from this year but with no fixed point in time and space to replace them, I get a little nervous. As it is, I seem to be falling back on familiar distractions to bide the time.
As you can see, I've started blogging again with the focus on me, me, me. I'm getting back into watching TV shows and movies at home, due to lack of funds. I'm playing video games again. Discovering new music is more fun with less closed-minded people around me. Most recently I'm spending time with someone special, who just might bring an end to part of this blog's mandate, pun intended. But ultimately I've spent most of my time over the later part of this year sending out resumes, making connections and even doing low paying or no paying design jobs just to stay involved. But I think I am ready for what the dragon has in store.
If I were to have learned one thing from 2011, it's adaptation. If it's two, then add patience. These two have worked in tandem to test me over and over again this year, forcing me to build up a strong, yet quietly anxious tolerance. It's nothing new to me since it seems I'm always making decisions in life that take me down this path. As much as I keep a calm exterior, I've had some low points where running away from everything sounded like a perfectly viable solution. But that's not what I want to show my daughter as the answer to any problem life throws your way.
My daughter has already been exposed to that way of thinking in terms of giving up before you've even tried and it's taken it's toll on her in more ways than she understands yet. I'm trying to set a better example for her with my perseverance and constant attitude check when it comes to looking for work and dealing with instantly becoming her sole care-giver. Ironically (or coincidentally), a song is playing with lyrics that emphasis what I'm saying: "Next time I'll be braver, I'll be my own saviour." And that, my friends, is all I am going to do for a New Year's resolution, be braver, be my own saviour.
As you can see, I've started blogging again with the focus on me, me, me. I'm getting back into watching TV shows and movies at home, due to lack of funds. I'm playing video games again. Discovering new music is more fun with less closed-minded people around me. Most recently I'm spending time with someone special, who just might bring an end to part of this blog's mandate, pun intended. But ultimately I've spent most of my time over the later part of this year sending out resumes, making connections and even doing low paying or no paying design jobs just to stay involved. But I think I am ready for what the dragon has in store.
If I were to have learned one thing from 2011, it's adaptation. If it's two, then add patience. These two have worked in tandem to test me over and over again this year, forcing me to build up a strong, yet quietly anxious tolerance. It's nothing new to me since it seems I'm always making decisions in life that take me down this path. As much as I keep a calm exterior, I've had some low points where running away from everything sounded like a perfectly viable solution. But that's not what I want to show my daughter as the answer to any problem life throws your way.
My daughter has already been exposed to that way of thinking in terms of giving up before you've even tried and it's taken it's toll on her in more ways than she understands yet. I'm trying to set a better example for her with my perseverance and constant attitude check when it comes to looking for work and dealing with instantly becoming her sole care-giver. Ironically (or coincidentally), a song is playing with lyrics that emphasis what I'm saying: "Next time I'll be braver, I'll be my own saviour." And that, my friends, is all I am going to do for a New Year's resolution, be braver, be my own saviour.
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