Why I left my sought-after job-in-my-field after one year

“To be inside art, not outside thinking about it. Rose had forgotten how it felt. Journalism did not work like that.” – ‘Don’t I Know You?’ by Marni Jackson Last Christmas, Marni Jackson’s book Don’t I Know You was on my list. My grandparents bought it for me, but I didn’t get around to reading it until this summer. The reason I wanted the book was because I had interviewed Jackson for a story I wrote in my fourth year of university on chronic pain, something which I deal with on a daily basis. Jackson is a Canadian author and journalist, and has written several non-fiction books, of which one is titled Pain: The Science and Culture of Why We Hurt. Her book Don’t I Know You? was her first foray in fiction. I wanted to read it because I wanted to know what the transition from journalism into fiction looked like. Reading the book after I had recently quit my job, the above

read more Why I left my sought-after job-in-my-field after one year

Fear of floating

I have a fear of floating. What I mean by that is, I am afraid of living a selfishly safe life that never makes an impact. I’m worried instead of doing anything meaningful, I will float like a magnet between two poles. Maybe I never commit myself fully to any one thing, a part of me always holding back for fear of fucking up, or maybe I’m not strong enough to break free of the hold of the opposite pole, always wanting the safety net of perhaps choosing one over the other. Either way, I know I don’t want to get stuck in the middle. I think that’s all I want to say about it right now. Maybe later, I’ll talk about how millennials have a weird need to be fulfilled in their jobs and in life, and where that stems from, (is it for the likes or for personal growth?), and also how social media makes me feel like

read more Fear of floating


Tonight I realized that my baby sister knows more about me than I do. She called me tonight after getting into it with our parents. It’s not an irregular occurrence, that’s for sure. She’s 14 and in high school. When I was 14, it was the beginning of trying to get the hell out of there. You see, my parents love us. But they both have horrible tempers. What they don’t realize is that they armed my sister and I with horrible tempers of our own. One of those ‘do as I say, not as I do’ situations. But when it’s all you’ve ever known, how do you know what else to do? And when you’re being punished for acting the only way you’ve been taught, where do you go? Who can you talk to? What struck me about tonight, was when I told my sister that she had to try to focus on the positive things our parents provide us. There are

read more Sister

I have depression, so sometimes I’m depressed

Saturday was the first good day I’ve had in a few weeks now. I felt Real Emotions, and by the grace of God, they were happy ones. I got up at a reasonable time, I was productive, and I actually wanted to be social. By the time Saturday evening rolled around, I told my roommate that I wanted to meet her at the bar after she was done with her dinner plans. I thought that getting out of the house for an evening, and not doing the exact same self-destructive thing I had done every night for the last two weeks, (Netflix, multiple glasses of wine, and bed for the entire evening), would be good for me. The after-dinner hour of 9:30 pm rolled around, but by then, I was well on my way to a night in. I had started to come down from my day of social interactions, and all my instincts were telling me to stay curled

read more I have depression, so sometimes I’m depressed

A version of myself

I was looking through my photos today, clearing up space on my phone; deleting things like screenshots of maps and silly texts, accidental finger shots, you know, the garbage that needs to be purged every once in a while. As I was scrolling through, my photographs from Ouagadougou struck a chord of nostalgia. I slowed down, and looked more carefully. While I’ve loved almost every place I’ve travelled, and certainly wished more than once that I could return to any given place, this was different. I realized, as I was looking through the photographs of the dirt roads through the cracked windshield of my taximan Madi’s car, that while yes, I missed the place, I also missed the version of myself that I was during that short time. One thing about travelling such a long distance for an extended period of time utterly and completely alone is that very likely, something will shift. Without all of the usual expectations, routines

read more A version of myself