My Truth. My Journey.

It's been one month.

When the cool air and warm sun hit my face this morning on our way to breakfast, the gravity of the past 6 weeks hit me; it has been one of the loneliest periods of my life for many reasons, but my journey through the darkness has been an interesting one and has challenged me in ways I wasn't expecting--life is really good at doing that, eh?

Anyway. Breakfast at our usual place never felt so necessary--a visceral parting of the clouds.

And I'm happy to feel the simple pang of hunger in my belly again. Relieved I can eat without force or nausea. I'm content to walk to and from both old and new places, forever an explorer of my own city. I've lost and continue to lose what feels like a lot of hair. I cry every time I wash it because I know what's soon to follow, but my soft bald spots are not the true cause of my tears. I cry because I feel a total loss of control--over my body, and the balancing of my emotions; my dark thoughts feel heavier than they ever have and all the trusty tools in my toolbelt don't seem to be workin' their usual magic.
I've had some of the most difficult conversations yet with the people I love, I've unveiled my darker layers and it's all been really hard work, but I've also been truly seen and more importantly, met by those (my) people, and we've reconnected where we had been previously short-circuiting.

A dear coworker caught up with me this week and asked how I've been feeling, how treatment went etc. When I shared my hurts and disappointments with her, I felt heard--because she met me there, in the shithole that is often chronic illness, and she shared her compassion and understanding through offering up her experiences with her own illness which I hadn't been privy to. It is a very powerful thing to feel heard, to be met at the loneliest parts of your being, especially if your brain has been trying to convinvce you that no one cares or understands.

Vulnerability and connectivity have taken over most of my brainpower lately in case that isn't obvious. As such, both my library of Brene Brown books and my journal have been getting a lot of action (insert Lee-Anne-style dirty joke like "one of us should be!" here)
I've also been delightfully lost in music/lyrics spanning all genres. Music has always done a world of good for me no matter what kind of wave I'm riding, but the recent Coldplay album release has breathed new life into me. Specifically the song "Champion Of The World".
Love him or hate him, Chris Martin has always had a special way of speaking directly to me through his lyrics and this song is no exception--I want to share it with those of you who may not have heard it or even given it a second thought. Because in one way or another, you are all champions of the (my) world, and my hope is that you remember that/it when you feel lonely, low, or afraid; I hope it gives you strength and births even more courage within you to keep going. Because it has done that for me.

To the people who know me best (and have seen me at my worst), I want to say a massive heartfelt thank you. Again.
For entertaining my silliness, for your ear when I need to talk. the. shit. out of things, for your shoulder when the tears roll, for the slumber parties, and tea times...but mostly, I want to thank you for never giving up on me even when it seems I'm giving up on myself; for challenging me in new, unexpected, and sometimes uncomfortable ways all. the. time. I truly feel as though our connections grow deeper because of it, and I definitely don't feel as lonely as I did a few weeks ago.
Thank you for seeing me, hearing me, and meeting me in the places it's scariest to go to. Because I know it's difficult for you too.
I love you all more and more for and because of it, and I hope you never underestimate the impact(s) you have on my life. And as usual, my overly sentimental heart will do its best to always remind you, the champions of my world, for helping me be a champion too.

Love,

L

The ordinary is the extraordinary.

Coffee cup is full.
Rain drops slide down my window distorting my skyline, quieting my insides.
Gentle acoustics give birth to rest; a retreat from my mind's contraband while blinding (gray) light fills my apartment, spilling shapes and shadows on what I thought I knew...what used to be familiar. Questions stretch themselves out inside of me; taking seats, claiming real-estate, and blanketing me in wonder.

Revelations, gratitude, and simple joys devour my day. My feet dance in, around, and then out of the kitchen. Every step ripe with intention.

I sit, write - I feel. I think of him, and then all the other hims who discarded my love, who unknowingly made me indestructible and more impassioned than one could ever expect to be.
I seek the words of strangers within the perfectly perfumed, discolored, and faded pages of books, older than I, and weighted with wisdom and healing.

I am consumed. Enchanted.
By this day, by this month.
By this (my) life.

It's a very strange feeling to be back in Greece. Some of you may remember my first trip here. A seemingly lengthy two and a half months full of emotional struggles back in 2008 when I initially met this part of my (new) family. George (bio dad) and I spent the first two weeks of that holiday alone on the main floor flat awaiting the arrival of my Grandparents. Everything around and inside of me was new, and on top of that, I was falling in love with James who was thousands of miles away.

When I came back in 2010, the house was quieter - we had lost my Yiayia. My mornings were somber, my ears constantly searching out her gentle sounds. When I would come home from an exciting and adventurous day, she wasn't here to ask me about all I had seen and done. 3 years I knew her. 3. We were cheated.

And here I am again. This time though, we have lost my Pappou. It was rather sudden - a span of a few months. Cancer. We said our goodbyes back in Toronto, in a room with the most spectacular view of the Toronto skyline. I held his hand, said a lot of things I should've said years ago, and kissed his full head of salt and pepper hair.

7 years isn't enough time.
I want to stomp my feet and toss myself around like a toddler in a fit of anger screaming, "It isn't fair! It isn't fair!", but that sort of thing is frowned upon when one is soon to be 33.

I stay on my own in the main level flat now. George above, Fivi, Nikos, and Dion below.
It's eerily quiet, but I rarely feel alone. In the middle of the night, I am awoken by the loud barks of the street dogs and I'm reminded of the now empty room next to me. Pappou's snores merely echos in my mind, the faint image of him tending to the garden, of him sitting across from me on the patio while we gorge on figs and he talks more than at any other time.
Yiayia's soft loving words wash over my skin, they race up and down the hallways, and in the dining room, they force my fork reminding me to eat, eat, eat.
In many ways I know they are all but gone. That what they have given and left with and inside of each of us is their legacy and we will carry that with us always.

But today.
Ohh, today.

I miss them so much.

A very Happy 10th Birthday to my dear journal.
I don't know what life would be like without this place. Without the friendships I've forged because of it.

Big shout out to my 21 year old self for creating a space that has been so invaluable to my being.

I search with hands moist and trembling, for the edges of the table beneath me while stiff, scabrous sheets feel unusually cool against my skin. My gown, twisted, is now a lump of fabric coiled up against my lumbar. Bright lights bombard my view saturating everything existing under them in the starkest of whites. The room itself is meager, hallow; void of comfort and emotion with the only exception being everything transpiring within me – chaos. The glimmer of idle surgical tools catches my eye. I acquaint myself with the very saw that will intersect with my flesh and skull in a matter of minutes. A waft of mint toothpaste meets my nose as I wash my tongue over my teeth in an attempt to calm my ravenous stomach. I hear the clock tick tock; an eerie reminder of the events about to take place, of the juxtaposition of this and every other life decision resting on the outcome. A nurse stands to my left in crisp blue scrubs, a stethoscope decorating her neck. She searches for the eyes of the bemused doctors while setting up my IV. Her hands hypnotize me with every swift and steady motion, but her smile lacks sincerity - I have never felt so alone. Predictable and sterile odors of iodine and soap fill the air. Fans whirl overhead, ready to transport the smell of my burning flesh into the ventilation systems hidden in the ceiling. Surgical steel encapsulates my fragile twenty-something life while the dull and distant hum of the doctors’ voices bounce off colourless walls, echoing orders to breathe deeply, to count down from one hundred. Heat from spotlights dangling above expels onto my face. A mask lay stretched over my mouth, black and reeking of rubber. As the anesthetic hits the back of my throat I close my eyes and count. One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven…

Lights out.

i miss the piggy-backing of hearts
the weightless smiles and future possibilities twinkling in his eyes

the clouds have moved in
my mind heavy with contraband
held back from the edges of my silky smooth lips - it's just so unladylike

instead i smuggle every ounce of relief - slowly it becomes a heaping pile inside of me
this rocky terrain, the scavenger hunt
has to.
stop

my heart has tired of searching
tired from the push and pull
the fair-weather love
the once open arms
the now barren hope
every refusal
all of the questions


my darling
i have been hollowed

and i do not desire
any such love that comes without
the wildest moxie

i have one eye on the clock
while the other searches for his hand

i fear the passing of time, but only for the words it leaves buried behind my lips
the sights my eyes fail to rest upon
and the love

the love that continues. to resist me

It's the dead of night and the only sound that is tickling my ears is that of the rain pounding heavy on every window. It helps define my mind's wonders, and the echoing

never seems to cease.

I love this time of year. Foggy, damp days - good for tea drinking, cheerfully decorated umbrellas, movie after movie all saturday long, and day dreams - I can't stop myself from day dreaming.
I'm waiting
for everything to bloom even though my insides are trying hard to keep the sun held hostage - and all for a ransom I'm sure wouldn't provide any guarentees. The risk, just too exciting to pass up.

Unlocking the hope from the chains of fear is such an emotionally draining process.
It keeps me awake at night, it keeps me closer than close to the battle of head vs. heart.

Only this time,

I don't know which one to bet my money on.

my days are full of unspoken emotional contracts
heavy with promises prone to failure and subsequent definitely maybe dissolution

a state of constant disillusion

i remember his heart - like a baby behind bars
and beating like a steady drum
i could hear every thought passing through him where his love was meant to be

unfamiliar to the routine of his own lock down, he fills his head with delusions and a military approach to any human connection. the enemy is never far, but his tactics have yet to fail him.
he's all business.

once i was his passenger
too late to learn that i was just a hitchhiker on the dead-end road to love,
unrelenting

the only hope left
is for tender words to remain on my headstone

but it doesn't matter to anyone but my whole universe.

ironic though,
now that i think of it

he was always his happiest behind me.