No worry.

I stayed relatively silent on the big corporate day.

There was no particular reason - I was busy, distracted, working. Bell does wonderful things with the money from Let's Talk Day (as evidenced in the recent investment into Right Here, Right Now). I also have my own axes to grind as a former Bell employee, but I digress.

Yet, for a few days I have been seething on a tweet I saw from someone who I follow. I cannot recall the exact wording but, in a nutshell, it said that anxiety is not an illness as we are all a little "worried;" that we need to realize worrying is not a disorder and maybe we should just go outside.

*grinds teeth*

I have fought my brain for a while now. It is a weird realization that you are often at war with a part of yourself, and understanding the effects this battle can have on your day-to-day doings.

The first time I heard the word "anxiety" used in a medical sense was in my first year of university. I still remember how my first "anxiety attack" manifested itself.

I was sitting in the backseat of my friend's car as we drove down Old Placentia Road. Suddenly, my left arm was overtaken by a shooting pain. I couldn't breathe. Any breath made it hurt more and I tried stretching. Nope. Nothing. Shallow breaths got me through the night, eventually the pain subsided and I made a doctor's appointment for three days down the road.

When I explained to my then-doctor what I had felt, and had continued to feel as the same shooting pain had come and gone over the last few days, only then did I hear that word for the first time.

"Well, you're away from home. It's a big move. I think you've had an anxiety attack."

What? This guy was a quack. I didn't have a worry in the world. I was independent, free, happy, embarking on my academic career and my biggest worry was my alarm not going off and missing an English 1080 class.

I walked away with a prescription and no more understanding than when I had walked in.

Over the years since (holy shit, 19 years), I have been accustomed to "panic attacks" occurring less and less, but I am cognizant that they are there.

I went a decade without one. The first reoccurrence happened a few years ago when I could not sleep, would wake up wired, and was exhausted as a result. When I asked my doctor what was happening he suggested stress. Then he used that damn A word.

I will be the first to admit I do not take medication, but I support those who do. One person's cure is not another's solution. I have had my stints with medications that left me without an appetite and feeling worse than I did without them. Sometimes I wish there was a magic happy pill for me. There is not. I am so happy for those of you who have found it.

I am a worrier.

And I do not trust. It takes a lot to break in and get to a point where I trust at all. Always the skeptic.

I accept it, I explain it to those who are close to me, and I try to put into words what goes through my head at times that might seem irrational to some.

I am a self defeatist, perfectionist, hater of failure, dreader of impending doom.

Say the wrong words and my heart rate surges, I overthink and all of a sudden I'm a narcoleptic because my body's response is usually to sleep. It is actually a strange phenomenon - my brain goes into overdrive and everything else says, "Nah fam, we sleep now."

That is just who I am. I expect and see the worst. And try to sleep it off.

When things are going well I will often wake up with my brain screaming, "JUST WAIT FOR IT ALL TO GO TO SHIT AND IT WILL BE YOUR FAULT!"

In those 19 years since Dr. Button introduced me to the A word, there have been times I have been frozen for no reason, heart rate above 160, the noose tightening and having to just walk away. Shallow breaths. No trigger, no reason.

No worry.

I am thankful that these times have been less and less over the years and yes, I am sure my activity level has helped. But, going outside or being active is an assistant, not a cure. It, like anything else, works for some but not for everyone. I will not tell you to go for a run and you will find the oracle of happiness somewhere along the trails of Long Pond.

Anxiety, however, is not only "worry," it is also not a series of panic attacks that manifest themselves from the mental to the physical. Every person experiences different things, and mine just happen to drill doubt in everything I do.

There are a few choice words the brain likes to channel down into the nerve endings, ones that often make me feel undeserving of things, that I have failed, I disappoint, I am less.

And no amount of reassurance, no words or messages, no hugs or "don't be so foolish"es change the narrative.

This is how mine manifests itself.

While writing comes easy, verbalizing this to those closest is often a challenge for me. Yet, I try to explain as there are undoubtedly times when self doubt and self loathing kick in and it is hard to comprehend for those outside.

I withdraw.
I make excuses.
I wake in the middle of the night and overthink things.
I think that when people get to know me they will not want to be around me.
I thank myself every day for the people around me but sometimes feel like a burden.
I accomplish things then reflect on how I could have accomplished more.
I do something and then play it over and over and over while pegging what I could have done differently, better.
I cannot order a coffee without wondering if maybe I sounded rude.

And the list continues.

No, my brain does not cripple me. I have friends who are betrayed by their brains on a daily basis and their strength astounds me.

Yet, I felt the need to address the common misconception that anxiety is worry, and that those who are branded with the scarlet A should just go for a walk and stop dwelling on petty things.

In the grand scheme of things I am very lucky. I know this. My brain likes to tell me differently and there are days when I can tell it to fuck off, move forward and carry on with daily tasks.

But there are also days when my brain wins, and those are okay too. God knows last year it did a JOB on me. Those are the days that I walk away from feeling stronger and like I've won by simply getting through.

Sometimes I just accept that I am a scared little girl at times.

To be honest, I am probably in my happiest place right now. Things are happy and good. But there are tough and questionable moments, the ones that say, "Too good for you."

My damn brain is like that.

If you feel like you are struggling, no matter how mildly or how severe, please do not hesitate to reach out to those who can help. We are all, as a friend of mine said, "more than five sessions fucked up." We are all in this mess together.

Mine is different than yours, but it does not make one more important than the other.

And anxiety is not worry.

Maybe those who need to go outside are the ones who make blanket judgements on everyone else's struggles.

37.

"The evening sun touched gently on the eyes of Lucy Jordan..."

37.

Just like that.

Another day come and gone, another trip around the sun, and blah blah blah more adages and cliches and bullshit.

You know, the lustre of birthdays wore off decades ago, and I am unsure if the shininess went with the Pass-the-Parcel parties or if it went with realizing each year's exercise in planning grandeur ideas was one of futility.

Turn your plate over! See if you've won a prize.

No cakes, no party hats, no balloons. Pack that noise.

36 was hard, man. I think I will wear those scars for a long time, and I hardened under much of what came down. I often wondered if I would see the other side of it all but here I am, on the other side and flipping off those and what I have left behind.

I like it over here.

As I sit here, embarking on another year, on my Lucy Jordan birthday, I will try a new exercise. Last year I lamented on how I seem to always spend this day setting myself up for failure with hopes and dreams of what I will accomplish in the year approaching. I will not do that this year. Often times the forces we need to accomplish what we put our hearts and souls into are out of our control.

Instead, I will try to annotate some of the lessons I have learned this year.

1. Never be afraid to believe things happen for a reason, no matter how hard or cruel they may be. Sometimes the hardest lessons we learn give us skills to navigate through other times; and sometimes those hard times - the cruelty, heartbreak, mistreatment by those who you trusted - bring you on new paths, and bring others into your life who are sincere and true. Things often do not make sense while they are happening, but one day you will sit and realize that if all of the hurt and bullshit did not happen the way it did, you would not be sitting where you are and with who you are. Every single decision and step is like one of those cheesy "Choose Your Own Adventure" books from those elementary Scholastic book orders. Maybe you needed to choose the snake pit to end up at the castle.

2. Advocacy is hard. We work in arenas where our hearts and souls go into everything we do, and often times we fall into the lion pits where we find ourselves eating our own. The heart, the brain and the psyche grow tired. There are days when we ask why we do what we do, if a difference is made or is to be made, and if we are constantly just clawing at quicksand. Find yourself a "raft of bitches" and remember we are so much stronger together, rather than tearing each other down or stepping on the heads of others to propel our own agendas and careers. Nothing built on the oppression of others will last. Just keep true to your goals and dreams for our communities, our groups, each other. Keep working your ass off. Oh, and division helps no one only those on the other side who want to see us fragmented and divided.

3. Rupi Kaur taught me a lot about selfish people. Selfish people will use you and hurt you for their own gain, simply because you are something they did not want to miss out on. "They gamble entire souls, entire beings, to please their own." Rid your life of those people. Do not let them consume you and remember, "Your existence meant that little next to their curiosity of you." Let them create their narratives. Go on with your life knowing your armour is stronger because of it and you have learned lessons on human nature, and how to not be. And sometimes, as a wise woman told me, what might seem like trying to get by is actually you dodging bullets better than Neo in The Matrix.

4. It's okay to not be okay. Take the opportunity when someone offers you an ear to use it. Talk. Even those who do not have advice are offering you priceless things - their ability to listen and their friendship. Those people are the ones you need in your life. Good people are damn hard to come by. Surround yourself with those who offer you their friendship and remember, as a good friend said, "Everyone is more than five sessions worth of fucked up." We're all a little broken and there is zero shame in that. Those who perpetuate perfection are likely the most broken of all. Do not let them make you feel wrong or ashamed for all of your broken pieces.

5. Chin up, woman. Things could be a lot better but they could also be a lot worse. You have wonderful people in your life, cuddly pups, and work that you love. There will always be those who throw the banana from their Mario Kart. Just fly on past. Do not let speedbumps, hazards or someone else's pathetic behaviours and insecurities hamper your goals, get in the way of what you do, who you are or where you are going. Feed on it and use it as fuel to be a whole damn fire.

6. Of all the things in your life to be thankful of, appreciate the people who stick with you the most. Make sure they know how important they are, return the favour when you can, and never take them for granted. And there will also be people you need to leave behind, scorch the earth behind you and salt it as you go. You'll be better off. Someone told me you make the most meaningful relationships later in life, and if that hasn't proven true this year, buddy, I'll eat my #gongernation hats.

7. And trust that intuition now. I have a sneaking suspicion you might have found where you are supposed to be. This just might be it.

At 17 I drunkenly said I would not be Lucy Jordan.

I'm not, but maybe we have some things in common. That's not always a bad thing.

Here's to 37.

And hey, I'm now at the age where buying that new Roomba was pretty exciting. If anyone needs entertainment I'll be charging admission to the event where it squares off with my robot dinosaur because, you know, I'm an adult.

BATTLEBOTS!

I think I'll go have a glass of wine, pack my bags to hop on that plane tomorrow. Though I spent this post reflecting on lessons learned, now I start to look forward to all that is to come instead of looking back at all that went wrong.

"So she let the phone keep ringing as she sat there softly singing pretty nursery rhymes she'd memorised in her daddy's easy chair..."

My Lucy Jordan Birthday

Ray Sawyer died this year. How fitting on this, the year of my Lucy Jordan birthday. I'm still 17 days away, but it is coming.

For those of you who have never heard "The Ballad of Lucy Jordan," this post probably will not make sense, but I will include a link for your listening pleasure.

My Lucy Jordan birthday has been a milestone for 20 years now.

It all stems from a night in 1999. I was 17. Friends and I had gone to one of their family cabins at Princeton Pond for a night of debauchery. When we arrived, his parents were there and his dad was half cut, strumming away on a guitar.

As the night progressed we headed to a bonfire away from the cabin, spent a night with friends that culminated in the usual night for me in my abusive relationship where I was, to spare you details, dragged through a gravel pit. We went back to the cabin.

The girls and I sat at a picnic table outside the cabin as I licked my wounds. All of a sudden, Gord started slowly strumming and singing "The Ballad of Lucy Jordan." I was no stranger to Dr. Hook. I adored Ray Sawyer.

Sipping on a bit too much Smirnoff, I stood on the picnic table seat and exclaimed to Krista, Kirsten and Crystal, "When I'm 37 I will not be a Lucy Jordan!"

And we sang.

"At the age of 37 she realized she'd never ride through Paris, in a sports car, with the warm wind in her hair..."

In 2002 I stood in a field with the rain pissing down, the crowd sparse because of weather, as Ray Sawyer belted out Lucy Jordan's plight in front of me at Salmon Festival. I remember leaning over and whispering to my friend Eugene, "I'm not going to be Lucy Jordan." He just kind of looked at me funny.

And here I am, 37 approaching, and the song I've held dear has taught me lessons on the passage of time, how quickly 20 years fly by, and how naive we are at 17 when our minds have grandeur ideas of how our lives will be when we leave our little towns for something bigger.

While I am not the protagonist in Lucy Jordan's suburban housewife life, no husband to go off to work or kids to go off to school, 36 was a hard year for me. I questioned myself personally and professionally, and maybe came a bit too close to figuratively being "on the rooftop where she'd climbed when all the laughter grew too loud."*

*There is still debate whether or not she jumped or if she was carried away. Either/or.

But, like Lucy, I had not made it to Paris. I likely never will. Paris stands for so much here, and I think that is the biggest lesson. Where we see ourselves at 37, when we are 17 and our eyes are dinner plates looking into the future, is often a much different reality when compared to what 37 really is.

Where did 20 years go?

A shoutout to my coworker here who I shared this with and who brought me a keychain from Paris last year. Rol, you're a doll, and you get it.

My upcoming Lucy Jordan birthday has made me reflect on how we prioritize progress and goals in life.

How important getting to Paris was to that little girl.

Paris is just a place.

How close and attainable Paris seems when you are 17 at Princeton Pond with your whole life ahead of you.

My Lucy Jordan birthday comes in 17 days. For those of you who have read here for a while you know I have never really done well with birthdays. I reflect a bit too much and I overthink the losses instead of the gains.

This year has started out positively, and I am hopeful; I am probably feeling better than I have for as long as I can remember. I have such amazing people in my life. You are all my Paris.

Maybe this year, on that day, I will reflect on it as one where "she let that phone keep ringin' as she sat there softly singin' pretty nursery rhymes she'd memorised in her daddy's easy chair."

Who knows?

All I know is that time moves fast; 20 years pass by like 20 days, and I can so vividly remember that night in Princeton Pond and how hopeful my 17 year old self felt that by 37 I would be invincible.

I don't know about that anymore. I feel pretty mortal.

But at 37 I know I will conquer and I will make inroads to continuing to carve out my place in this messy life and world.

And maybe it will be done "with the warm wind in her hair." For Lucy.

Have a listen: https://youtu.be/FDS2hSmokQ0

And Dr. Hook > Marianne Faithfull.

Batter to jesus, 2018

And so it is.

I try to sit here annually and recap the year that has just expired, what has passed away, and this year is no different. But jesus, what an eulogy this is.

2018 is gone, and good riddance.

Today I have seen many eulogies, and I have also seen a lot of self righteous prose from pedagogues who stand high and mightily on Twitter pedestals, preaching from the mount.

"Oh, it wasn't the year's fault, it was you."

B'y, we're not that stunned. It wasn't the universe.

Suck it, and suck it for everyone who has spent this year with pain. We know the universe and stars did not magically coordinate to turn our lives upside down, but we also know that we have hurt, things have been bad and by fuck, we will not be belittled in how poorly we have felt through this year.

B'ys, here it is, and buckle up because I am going in dry:

You do not get to tell someone who has hurt, or who has experienced loss, that their experiences are less or mean less. You do not get to rank or judge anyone's experience, loss, emotions or hurt and tell them how to process or be. You do not. You certainly do not get to break someone then determine how broken they are permitted to feel. Like that one? Therapists are great.

Anyway.

In the words of Brian Fallon, "Everybody's hurt and mine ain't the worst but it's mine and I'm feeling it now."

If it is your hurt, feel it.

If this year has been bad - hurt, yell, scream, say goodbye to it with a vengeance and wield your sword into 2019. I don't give a fuck if you had your biggest loss or your hamster died - no person can judge another person's hurt. I am here if your 2018 was a hellscape.

And I hope your 2019 is a better place.

I often come here to get feelings out through my fingers and into the keys. I am not sure I can do that tonight.

What I can do is express a little -

2018 was a very hard year. The hardest. And I know plenty who felt the same. Many of us tried our hardest to find ways to dig out of holes when the dirt seemed to fall perpetually and to be a blizzard.

Tonight I got a text from a friend that simply said, "We made it."

And we did.

This year I experienced the hardest losses of my life, but I have also learned lessons.

I have learned lessons on love, loss, trust, lies, selfishness, and how to just survive.

I have seen the best and worst of people.

But, the biggest lesson I can take from 2018 is friendship.

I fear using names in case I miss someone. This is not the intent.

I have made friends who I would trust with my life, and one special friend who I spend weekly sushi dates with and who I trust my life with.

That is one name I will use. Jason, you have been my rock. Thank you for days eating tuna rolls and listening to my broken, then mending heart. You are my best friend and I could have never asked for a better person to come into my life. I am so happy you have also found your happiness. This life is a journey, and I am so happy we can be buddies and vent through it all over wasabi. I would not have made it without you.

I have lost friends. I have lost people I trusted with my life and who I would have never guessed would not be here right now. This time last year I sat at this exact table, typing hopeful words and falling for a fairy tale that was a pretty, painted fiction. Naive. This time last year I was hopeful. I am hopeful again this year, but not because of hollow text and promises, but because of real actions. I have learned a lot.

And now I know a lot about what love is and is not.

Never again will I be a fooled little girl.

And some of the people who have helped keep my head above water cannot be thanked enough. I hope you know who you are. I hope you know how much I love you and how appreciated you are.

And then there is that one person who has been there through it all, who had a sixth sense for when I was at home on the couch feeling my lowest, and who would talk to pick me up, make me smile.

For whatever reason, I remember every second we talked and every interaction. You were always standing out to me. And now you stand out even more as the most important person in my life going into 2019. My biggest regret is being blind to it until now.

He was the person who I eventually met in the gym, talked to in the hall for ages and who I couldn't keep my eyes off and who wouldn't stop making me laugh. He still does.

And the simple sound of his voice on the phone is my favourite thing in the world.

That one.

I hope you know what you are to me now.

2018 was a fucking cesspool.

And you can subtweet or mansplain my part in it as much as you want, but at the end of the day you need to just jam your fingers up your hole and have a spin because I'm not having it.

Nor should anyone who has hurt this year put up with someone else telling you how to feel, or that someone else had it worse. Someone always has it worse, but that is not a measuring stick on your life.

If turning the page on the calendar makes you feel like you have a new start I am happy for you, and I hope you get the reset you need.

I know I am heading into 2019 with the best friends and best support I have had in my life.

And the most hope.

So, my dear, fuck you to 2018. Fuck you.

And, if 2018 was bad for you, fuck that too. Only you can weigh your hurt and anger, nobody else. "But starving kids in Africa" was a comparison our parents leveled in the 1980s when we didn't eat our Kraft Dinner. Sometimes your heartbreak or hurt do not give a fuck.

I wish you love, I wish you peace, and I wish you a kickass 2019 that is better that the shitpile we are leaving behind.

And remember, when we rise from the ashes, we rise as the whole god damned fire.

Happy 2019, y'all.

Dear 19 Year Old Dwan...

Two weeks ago Pam Frampton penned a letter to her 19 year old self that held many strong messages we can all relate to (Pam's fantastic column can be found here: https://www.thetelegram.com/opinion/columnists/pam-frampton-a-letter-to-my-19-year-old-self-247701/)

Upon reading I found myself thinking, "What a wonderful exercise." Reflection can be a brilliant, or a painstaking tool, and I like to believe we all have much to learn from it.

And then I wondered, "What would I tell 19 year old me now?"

Here goes:

Look around - these people around you are diverse, and all have a part in your life that shapes you. By the time you are 36 most of them will be gone. You will reflect, they will pop up in memories sometimes, or in stories in rooms when you are talking about the past. They will go. Very few will remain. But soak them all up now, their words and experiences.

You will leave him. It is coming soon, and you will hit your breaking point, walk away and say no more. You will heal, and you will use this as fuel for so much in your life. The abuse stops now, and it will make you fierce.

Stay true to yourself. You owe nothing to anyone. No matter how many people tell you how you should be, what you need to change, how you should shape yourself to fit their ideals - do not. Stick to who you are and embrace it. You will not always be everyone's cup of tea, but that is okay and you will learn to accept that. Those who cannot accept you are not worth your energy.

There are bad people in this world. You will find many, but you will learn lessons from them all to take you through the rest of this messy life. Even when you sit and feel duped, at times when you think you have it all figured out, just remember - learn. Take the experience. Sometimes the hurt will burn like a thousand fires, and only you can put them out.

You will not finish your academic career as a forensic anthropologist. I know, right? Crazy. You will actually realize what a huge part of your person and being the fishery is and will dedicate your life to the industry that has sustained your family and community for decades. I know you might not believe me, but it is true. And you will realize that the things you have taken for granted deserve your energy now.

Mom and dad will be your best friends. I know it is hard to fathom now, but you have just moved out and are experiencing your freedom for the first time. Everything will come full circle. Appreciate them and all they have to give you. Listen to the stories, their experiences. They are usually right, even though your stubborn pride will often not let you believe it.

What makes you different are all qualities that will bring you to understand yourself, eventually. You will grow into the quirks, the stubbornness, the one liners, the chewed nails, lack of makeup and the entirety of who you are. People will criticize, they will judge and they will try to change you. To those people you say, "Fuck off," and keep doing you.

Oh, and you will be a part of so many wonderful hockey teams that your love of the sport will turn into a massive part of your life. You will meet so many people, laugh until you hurt, and will once again find that comradeship you had to leave behind when you were no longer a DC Destroyer. You will be 36, the sorest person on earth, but every time you lace up you will be in your happy place.

And finally, you will never fit the ideals laid out for how and who you should be - and that is okay. It is easy to look at your life and wonder why it does not look like others, but it is good and you will be okay. That small apartment on Colville will turn into a small apartment on Freshwater, Malta, Abbott, Terra Nova, a house you will leave due to a failed relationship, and other small apartments. Relationships fail, friendships end, and life circumstances change. Through it all, you persist.

You land your dream job. You are loved by two little furbags who adore you. There is hurt, there are hardships, but you gain the tools to work through it all over the next 17 years. And there are good people who come along. Wait for them.

Keep your head up, kid.

Keep pushing, keep asking questions, keep challenging when something does not seem fair or right, and use the voice you find. You will find it very shortly. You have been finding it for a while now (thanks, Mr. Broderick!)

And, most of all, remember what one of your mentors will post one day that will stick with you: "This living, it is messy, but it is beautiful."

Believe her.

Hello, bloggerverse. It's been a while.

I have been generally quiet and just trying to enjoy things, cut the bullshit and rage-inducing things out of my life and drop the blood pressure to a normal level.

But, buddy I AM FIRED UP NOW.

If you have been following the Coronation of Kavanaugh to a lifetime seat in the United States of America's highest court, and the recent allegations brought forward by Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, you should be too.

In an anonymous letter to Senator Feinstein, Dr. Blasey Ford (who has since stepped forward to attach her name to the piece) described a sexual attack Trump's heir to the justice throne perpetuated on her then-15 year old self. He was 17.

He pinned her down.
Tried to rip her clothes off.
His friend watched.
Cheered him on.
Hopped on to join.
Turned up the music when BK's hand was not enough to muffle her screams.

Dr. Blasey Ford also spoke to her therapist about the attack in 2012 and the lasting effects it has had on her life.

So, of course, the MAGA kiss-asses have started their rage campaign and have begun to smear Dr. Blasey Ford with "LIAR" and the scarlet letters of the endless list of expletives used on those who dare come forward with sexual misconduct allegations.

BK had his cronies drum up a letter signed by 65 female classmates who declared the teenager they knew surely could not rape (only two, when asked by Politico, said they would stand by their praises).

Two hundred women have since signed a letter stating Dr. Blasey Ford's description of what occurred matches what they have experienced at their alma mater.

I mean, she passed a polygraph and all...

And, in the midst of it all, the President of the United States and White House staffers have dismissed her story and called her a liar.

The President.

Let's be clear here -

The false reporting of sexual assault sits somewhere in the 5-8 percent range; comparable to that of other crimes.

So, sit your ass down before you get on with the, "Women accuse men to ruin their lives and lie about rape all the time!"

Ronnie down the road has the same probability of falsely accusing Willis of robbing his chainsaw.

This isn't about all men being rapists, all allegations being true, or all of us angry witches stirring our cauldrons to try and ruin the lives of anything with a penis because we hate men.

It is rather about asking the important questions -

Why are we still at the point where it is the victim who has mustered up the courage to come forward who has to bear the brunt of an attack on her body?

How does the administration of a world superpower choose to believe a man who attempted to rape, and push to put him in a position of power to have autonomy over the bodies of approximately 150 million women?

How are we living in an age when the long fought battle, and subsequent victory of Roe v Wade is in jeopardy at the very hands of an attempted rapist, while the bigger focus is on his victim?

"BUT WHY DID SHE ONLY COME FORWARD NOW WHEN HE HAS BEEN NOMINATED TO A POSITION OF POWER?"

She didn't. She tried to raise alarms when his name was on the short list, contacting the Washington Post.

Maybe her courage bubbled to the surface at just this point because she could not bear to see the autonomy of millions of women - their reproductive health and lives - put in the hands of a man who assaulted, degraded and destroyed her.

Maybe she had just had enough.

But, maybe she is lying, right? Maybe she summoned her witchy powers and took her evil vagina time machine back to 2012 and planted those notes with her therapist.

We are all liars, after all, if we do not run and report our assaults and rapes immediately on the second.

"WHY DON'T WOMEN COME FORWARD?"

We are embarrassed.
Violated.
Shamed.
Blamed.
And we are just not believed.

So, park your criticisms for once and believe women (yes, before that person jumps in - men get assaulted too, we know, but that's not the topic here. Come back for another episode).

My timeline this week has been a mix of Kavanaugh, coupled with the ex-CBC radio host/serial assaulter peeking his mug out of his hole again. Oh, and how about coaches who are now being nailed with decades and decades of their vile acts by women who are now coming forward and drawing strength from each other to face their abuser?

I will never understand why we keep giving abusers platforms while attacking and re-victimizing those who dare use their voice to name their abusers.

Just stop it.

Take a minute, wonder if any woman wants her name and reputation dragged through the mud of every social media outlet, attacked and re-victimized, forced to re-live the worst moments of her life. Why would she choose to step forward knowing the repercussions?

I have seen many ask the critics - "What if she was your wife/mother/daughter?"

Yet, this question should not matter. You all have women in your lives. Dr. Christine Blasey Ford shared an experience that is far too familiar to many of us.

And many of us have never breathed a word, never taken our abusers to task, never seen them brought to justice.

I believe her.

We need to stop demonizing the women who speak and we need to channel that energy in to ensuring those accused are investigated thoroughly, and brought to justice.

Oh, and stop with the "boys will be boys" bullshit, and trying to use the fact that he was 17 to water down the severity of the act.

That old adage is the exact reason why so many women do not come forward for decades - we are led to believe this is the norm and we must accept that some boys just cannot control their urges.

Maybe our skirts were too short.
Their hormones were raging and we grew boobies.
That shirt was a liiiiiiiiittle tight.

We question ourselves or try to push it all away.

When I was 17 I was no angel, but sneaking a flask behind the Chain Locker was a hell of a lot better than turning up the music to muffle someone's screams while violating them.

Funny, I drank it with a lot of guys as well, and none of them ever attempted to rape me with the music up.

Do I believe people cannot be rehabilitated? No. I do, however, believe that admittance and owning an action is a key step to healing for all involved.

Denial and painting the victim as a liar, or further victimizing her, are not good moves. Apologize, better yourself, seek the treatment and support you need - let everyone heal. BUT OWN IT.

Let us make sure abusers know their actions will not be condoned and there is no statute of limitations on how long before your actions will demand answers or bite you in the ass.

And let's fight like hell to make sure Kavanaugh crawls back into his hole and never gets to hold the bodily autonomy of millions of our sisters to the south in his hands.

The Boots.

See, I have these boots.

I had never worn the boots, despite being 6 years old, and the boots became the crux of many a joke over the years.

This is a blog about the boots.

I'm going to go full Sophia Patrillo here - "Picture it, St. John's, 2012..."

Our varsity cross country team is about the head to Halifax for the AUS Championships. It just so happens we are going to fly back home the night of Mardi Gras and, given we were clearly going to kick ass, we were going downtown to celebrate. Our flight would get in at 10 pm.

I needed a costume. I settled on Catwoman. Now, not just ANY Catwoman, Halle Berry Catwoman.

I went to a million places and found every piece of the costume, right down to the belts, the headwear, everything -

But I could never find the right boots.

Finally, a friend said, "Try a sex store."

Sure, why not? I walked in, strolled nonchalantly past the anal beads, and told the clerk what I was looking for. He delivered.

"Why have the boots never been worn?" you ask.

Fast forward to AUS. We have to get to the airport so we all put our costumes on beforehand. Mine is a tad revealing so I put a hoodie over it though I did get weird looks in a hoodie, those pants and the boots. I stopped counting how many times Nick would look at someone who was giving me strange glances and say, "She's a dominatrix." I dealt out many a punch that night.

When it is time to go through security, they tell me I need to take off my coat. I lean in and, with a whisper, explain that I'm wearing a costume that isn't family friendly and no kids need to see the Itty Bitty Titty Committee here strapped up in leather and spikes. 

"Ma'am, you still need to take off the coat."

Here I am, in all of my glory - tired, cranky, thirsty and standing in an airport looking like the security guy just paid good money for an old fashioned flogging. 

AND THE ALARM KEPT GOING OFF.

I swear I walked back out and in about 576 times (okay, maybe an exaggeration, but still...) until they finally did a body scan as I was about to cry and wondering what else I would have to take off.

GET ME TO MARDI GRAS.

The plane takes off and the night is young, the weather is great, the team is pumped. We watch the map and our little plane logo circling over St. John's.

Then it starts to go back.

We ask the attendant who will not tell us what is going on and, until we were on the ground again, IN HALIFAX, did they tell us it had been too foggy to land. We are all checking our watches and thinking at least we'll get to rock Halloween somewhere in Halifax that night.

Nope.

"We're heading back to St. John's."

You have never seen Catwoman, a wizard, Jesus, a cowboy, two cowgirls and Batman so pissed off.

So, why have I never worn the boots? We landed at 6 am, missed Mardi Gras, and I spent a lifetime sitting on a plane wearing more pleather, studs and chains than I am comfortable with.

Last night I wore the boots and now you know their story. I'll probably never wear them again but hey, I can tick the box on "owns a pair of boots from a sex store."