*A note before you read this. It touches on death, addiction, and my first marriage. If these topics make you uncomfortable in any way, I think for now you can just let it pass you by. I have always dreamed of getting a book published, and some of you know that this one has been a labour of love for a few decades. It has changed and evolved with me, and I think it’s time.
A preface traditionally is meant to set the tone and subject of a book. Mine is to show you the style of writing I have used, the tonality of introspection and inner monologue that it carries, and the universality that life is a complicated and beautiful mess sometimes.
Preface
November 29th 2016 is one of those days in my life where everything changed.
I remember getting up to go to work, and to walk Canela, our 56lb Shar Pei Boxer mix. She wasn’t a morning person either, and we both groggily got out of bed, hers on the floor on my side of the mattress because she always wanted to sleep beside me. There was nothing particularly memorable about the morning itself. Finding myself in the comfortable habits of my routine, we walked through our neighbourhood and I came home to feed her. That beautiful man lay in our bed, probably dreaming of fashion or food, as those always were two of his favourite things. I proceeded to shower and get ready for a busy day ahead. Nothing special, but familiarity has always been one of my most loved feelings to immerse myself in. I like the consistency of patterns and routines because I had up until that day lived a pretty non-conventional and erratic life. Though I craved it, I always somehow managed to mess it up. No matter, the hot water running down my tired body felt good right now and I was not just content, I was happy.
Getting out of the shower I reach across the bathroom to grab a towel hanging behind the door, careful to not turn my head to the left where the mirror hangs. I have never been very good at looking in the mirror. Diagnosed in my early twenties with body image dysmorphia, I only see the flaws that stare back at me. Standing there nude, I see the body that has undergone so much over the years. From being “overweight” to anorexic, like a proverbial human accordion. I often diffuse the topic of my weight which makes me incredibly uncomfortable by saying that it’s my trick to looking so young. An alcoholic to a drug addict. From every hair colour under the sun, and every iteration of myself, I stand there for a moment and realize I have put on weight since we got married.
He’s noticed.
And so have I. It’s affecting our marriage again because no matter what I tell myself, this love is anything but unconditional.
I keep making excuses about wanting to get back to the gym. If I had a six pack once I can do it again, I think to myself over and over again while I stand there in silence. It doesn’t feel nice to have to keep buying clothes that get bigger and bigger. What my (now first) husband doesn’t realize is that the way he brings it up only makes me feel uglier than I already do. I’ve always been so god damn insecure and I am sure he means well.
But there is a way to say those things I tell myself, and the last time he said those exact words, it was really fucking hurtful. Like I normally do, I just kept that feeling to myself because often times when I say he hurts my feelings, he responds by saying no he didn’t. So, as often is the case, I slowly pull inwards instead of saying that it wasn’t okay. I hate to fight, and what is the point in starting another argument? It always ends the same way lately anyways. I shut down, he gets angry and raises his voice in frustration, and I ultimately explode like a volcano holding back too much to which I’m told I take over everything and no one can have feelings but me. I wish we knew how to communicate properly.
Better to just wrap myself in this towel and cover as much of my body as it can and stop thinking like this. There is so much more love that I can focus on anyways. And my god, do I love that man, despite the things he sometimes can’t stop himself from saying and doing.
I only let us have sex in the dark now because I can’t stand the thought of him looking at me and being disgusted, the way I am disgusted right now standing in front of the mirror. I have this type of inner dialogue every morning, and I keep reminding myself to try and practice kindness and self-love.
I walk into the tiny walk-in-closet we have in our room and look for clothes that will hopefully fit today. I try to be as quiet as I can because I don’t want to wake him. I like the soft snoring I hear coming from the bed as I pull pants over my legs. I pick a generic sweater and throw it over my body, noticing how uncomfortable I feel in my own skin today. It’s a feeling that I’ve become accustomed to, though it isn’t any less upsetting.
But this is life, and I’ll get through the day without letting the people around me know how much I hate the way I feel about myself. I’ll be bubbly and charismatic and hope that no one says that I’ve put on weight like some have at events over the last year. I stop for a minute in the closet and think back to those moments. There are some very unkind people in this industry, but like I always do, I keep the pain to myself. I smile away the sugar-coated insult and make a joke. Humor has always been a skill of mine to deflect. That and my charisma. I am very good at what I do, and I know it.
Kissing him on the forehead and whispering I love you into his ear like I do every morning, I stop for a moment and run my fingers through his iconic black hair. I smile to myself as I realize that even if he comments on my physical changes over the years, I would never say anything like that to him. His body is aging like mine has been, and he has lost a lot of weight this year. To me he is still so incredibly beautiful. I’ve never not found this man sexy and when I can, I worship his body.
We’re different and I can handle his comments, I tell myself. If we love one another, the rest will sort itself out after all, because that is what marriage is. It takes work. I’ve made enough mistakes as a husband and I would never want him to not feel sexy to me. Sliding out of our condo in Toronto, Canela goes back to bed and they will get ready for their days once I’m gone.
It’s mid morning and several hours later when I get a phone call from my husband. Strange, since he should be at work and normally I don’t hear from him until his lunch break in the early afternoon. Though I don’t know it yet, and will only remember it when I look back on the memory, his voice trembles. Normally I would pick up on it but now I’m frazzled. Lately I am always in a hurry to just keep busy and distract myself with work.
“I need you to come home.” he says to me.
I’m in the middle of a busy day doing too many things for one person to do. But I run my own business, and that’s just what one does as an entrepreneur I tell myself. Looking back now, I am short with him in my response. I’m irritated that he is interrupting a day I need to endure in the name of “success” and being everything to everyone. Deep down I don’t think I recognize myself at all anymore.
“I’m really not feeling well. I need you to come home now please.”
Now I’m not only irritated that I must stop what I’m doing, but I’m concerned. This man is one of the most fiercely independent men I will ever meet. He does not ask for help, let alone admit when he needs it. Not with his family, and certainly not with me, his spouse. Reluctantly I say my goodbyes to those I am meeting with after a workout we all did together for a brand. I’m always chasing brands and money.
Funny how this is my job now. Working with brands around the world to create content. I proudly call myself a blogger, but god only knows what that means anymore. What I do know is that I am almost always desperately worrying about money now that I have quit my full-time job.
I made good money in that position, and I was good at it. I had benefits. It was consistent. But I wasn’t happy, and I wanted to be the success story of the Canadian media world. I wanted to rule this world and proudly be able to say I did it on my own terms. Fuck everyone who ever told me I wasn’t good enough and would never make it, right?
No one knows that every night I lay awake so scared that I have made the wrong decision and that I am always on the brink of bankruptcy while living a lie in the public eye. We were in a good place financially when I worked that job I think to myself. Our combined incomes could have led us to everything we had planned. But if I didn’t try to do this and chase this dream, could I have ever forgiven myself? I have always felt like a work in progress in life. Working towards something bigger and better, not ever feeling truly satisfied with what I had. There always had to be more.
More money. More fame. More booze. More drugs. More sex. More, more, more.
On my way home, I am now texting my husband about his symptoms and asking him what he is feeling specifically, while getting vague responses. Maybe I need to take him to the doctor. His health hasn’t been great lately and we’ve had a few appointments to make sure his heart is okay. Ever since his diagnosis as a result of his choices, I worry about him all the time. I could never say anything about that out loud though. It’s why I took a photo of his ECG that I plan to tattoo on my chest eventually. I only have a few tattoos at this point in my life, and his heart beat is one I can’t wait to have next to mine forever. Years later I would have it tattooed directly across from my first tattoo which is the word ‘Always.’ Because I always follow my heart. I’m the quintessential definition of hopeless romantic.
He hates when I share too much of our personal life online and I don’t blame him. I “sold” our wedding after all and he resents me for that. I used the blog and its success to get a free trip, and wedding, so we eloped. But in doing so, we had to share something so incredibly personal with strangers around the world. Our first wedding anniversary is in a few days and I want to do something for just the two of us. I’ve planned a romantic stay at a hotel recreating some moments that are special to us both. He has no idea about my anniversary plans, let alone that I also secretly want to plan another wedding for our family and friends in the coming years. And this time, no phones. No hashtags. No social media.
Just us together and the ones we love. Because the only thing in my life that has ever allowed me to feel like I’m enough is being married to this man. I want for nothing when it comes to love and he is finally enough after so many failed relationships. I’ve never felt this way about a man before, and despite our challenges, I only want him. I want to give him the wedding he deserves along with the life he deserves. I always have. So despite all the worry, I push on. For him and for us.
We’ve had our problems. Facing some pretty heavy shit early on in our marriage, and though I am trying my best, I wish we could see our couple’s therapist more regularly again. But that costs money, and when I must cut costs to balance the budget, that’s one of the first things to go. If he sees his therapist, I remind myself that mine can wait. Funny how my whole life I put people before myself. Years later I’ll come to learn it’s because I am so scared they won’t love me if I don’t. I wish we talked more openly about some of the heavy stuff.
With him it finally feels different. And no marriage is perfect, I remind myself.
I didn’t like that I have started using narcotics again, or that we are both drinking too much lately. It brings up a lot of resentment we hold towards each other. It changes us. I don’t like who I become when I try to escape with these distractions, but I am coping with things I have no experience with until one day I did. I don’t like the angry and vindictive things that come out of his mouth, and the fights it causes. I don’t like that I don’t know when to stop using, so it’s never a little bit and it is certainly not recreational. It’s days and days of a full bender every single time. But I can’t bring it up because he has never liked talking about it, and secretly I don’t want him to because it would mean I had to stop. At this point I am in full active addiction, and it’s not helping anyone, and I don’t feel safe to talk to anyone about it.
Not feeling safe is a theme in my life. To this day, I don’t know if I have ever experienced feeling one hundred percent safe and protected. There is always a part of me that is scared.
“It’s my problem to deal with. Not yours.” is usually the answer I get about most bigger topics in our lives when I try to talk about tackling things as a team.
He says that a lot lately. Not understanding that in my mind, his problems are mine too. But that was neither here nor there today. I am on my way home like a knight in irritated shining armour to take care of my husband and I feel needed. I’ll get over my ruined schedule and later today, nursing him to health, I will remember that this man is the most important thing to ever happen to me. After a failed engagement years before, and fighting through some heavy shit my whole life, I love him more than I ever have in this very moment and all the moments we have overcome together.
I walk into the condo and Canela is sitting on the couch beside him, both staring off into space together. I put down my bag in the hallway in the same way I usually do. Unfortunately, I am not good at picking up after myself, so I usually kick my shoes off in the hall and throw my things down carelessly. The television is on, but they’re not watching.
I think to myself that he doesn’t look ill, but I know he wouldn’t take a day off work for no reason. I quickly use the restroom and proceed into the living room. Looking around the condo I realize that we are quickly outgrowing the space. My blog is getting busier, and the deliveries are piling up in the corner. Every day I feel bad that my work is not only putting financial burden on us, but now it is physically encroaching into our home. It’s not a big condo, but it’s ours. Every corner holds memories.
The curtains that hung, but because of the inability to put proper brackets in to hold them, always fell. The couch that I replaced the cushions on, except I ordered the foam too hard and for a long time it hurts our hips to sit for too long. The bedroom without a window that we’ve tried to make more liveable with a chandelier that we couldn’t afford, let alone pay the electrician to install. The plaster is peeling off beside the sliding door to the bedroom because the dog claws at it when we are gone. She always loves sleeping on the bed when we aren’t home. I don’t mind, but it drives him crazy. I’ve never had a dog before we adopted her, so in my eyes she can do no wrong.
I stop beside the couch with an exasperated sigh beside him. I remember noticing that the sky was grey outside our windows as I stared at the finger marks on the windows. I should probably clean that today when I get him to bed to rest. Maybe I’ll make him some soup and green tea. My mind is always racing like this these days, and he isn’t looking at me, which also feels strange.
He stands up, and asks me to sit, still not looking at me.
“Your mom called” he says, reaching down and petting the dog who is looking at him with worry. Or at least thinking back on this moment, I imagine it to be worrying. Funny how we put emotions into our animals. But truthfully, she is one of the most beautiful souls I have ever met. I remember how she cried and wouldn’t leave my side when I kicked him out early in our marriage after finding out about what he had and was doing behind our backs. We both cried on that bed in the other room, broken by the truth of something so terrible. Sometimes I wonder if she saw things he denied happened in our home. Did she say hello to them all when they came and went while I thought he was being faithful? Did they pet my dog while they lay in our bed with him?
That doesn’t matter now. We got through that and I love my husband more than ever I remind myself. We don’t talk about the issues I still have because of it, but I’ll find the time eventually to make us a priority. Him first, then us, and then me. That’s how it’s always been, and I like it that way.
“Okay and what did she say? How are you feeling? You had me worried today babe.” I say to him. I haven’t sat down yet because I’ve had too much coffee today and I’m jittery.
“Please sit-down Danny” he says, and I am unsure what is happening. My whole life I hated when people called me Danny. It felt so juvenile and for some reason always got under my skin. But the way it sounds on his lips, it feels right. To this day, he is the only man I would want calling me Danny. It feels like it is his alone and I like that idea.
His Danny Bear.
This whole morning feels dramatic and I just want to get to taking care of him because that is what I cancelled my day for.
Why is he acting so weird?
He sits beside me, and he puts his hand on mine.
At home I love how affectionate we are. I love that we always touch, or when he leans against me on a Sunday night. I look down at his hands and am reminded how beautiful he is. His long feminine fingers look at home intertwined with my rough fingers. He always takes care of his appearance, so much more than I do. I make fun of him for it playfully because it takes him forty-five-minutes to get ready for bed, but he is far more beautiful than I am or will ever be, so secretly I appreciate it. I know he does it for himself, but it’s nice to be with someone who takes the time to take care of themselves. I remind myself that I should try harder for him. He is always telling me I need to dress better and take care of my body. Maybe he’s right. He deserves me to be better and look better and I must start doing that more. Again, my mind goes back to my body and for a moment I feel ugly beside this beautiful man. I could never tell him that because he wouldn’t understand.
One of my favourite parts of this man is his eyes. The depth of their brown always feels like I am diving into his soul. He doesn’t like how intensely I stare into them, and I think it’s because I really see him. All of him. Every time we make love, it is the way I want to be close to him. To hold his body against mine and look deeply into the eyes I love most of all. To have a connection this strong and intense is such a blessing and although it has been hard, I never want to not have him in my life.
Silence fills the room as he turns off the television and leans back. He takes in a breath.
“Hunny, your Dad died” he says.
I will never forget the look in his eyes when they finally met mine.
For a moment I sit on the couch, and it is as though a wave of numbness starts in my toes and works up my legs, slowly swallowing me. Like the feeling of getting into a bath, but much worse. As it reaches my waist, I feel as though I’m falling backwards now.
“What?” is all I can manage to push out of my lips.
“He died in his sleep last night. They think it was a heart attack.”
A pause.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry.”
Another pause.
And he begins to cry. His eyes have never looked at me this way and never would again. So kind. So sad. So wanting to not have had to tell me what he just did. Words that now float into the air and space around us that he cannot take back.
He is looking at me like I am made of glass and am about to shatter into a million pieces.
Though that proverbial moment would come years later, it doesn’t happen. I sit very still on the couch and now Canela has made her way over. He has tears on his cheek and doesn’t know what to say or do. She wants to get on the couch between the two of us, which is her favourite place to be. He tries to usher her away while comforting me, and raises his voice, which cracks. She can feel the energy in the room has changed and she is trying to help.
I sit there, feeling nothing.
Another pause.
The world both stops and starts spinning much faster all at once.
“Babe?” he asks.
But I don’t know what to say.
I’m not a hundred percent sure what I’m supposed to do or say right now.
I stand up and start to pace. First slowly, and very suddenly, much faster.
The next few minutes are a blur, but I know at one point I stop and stand looking at the ground. My eyes lose focus and he makes his way over to me and wraps his arms around my body. That is always when I feel the most safe, and if I think about this, this may be the moment in that marriage where I felt the safest of all. Just with him, and in his arms.
I am much bigger than he is and usually love to envelop him in my arms or pull him close while we lay in bed. I am usually the one to hold him, but when he does hold me it’s as though the world can’t hurt me, even if just for a few minutes.
It’s just one of the reasons I know he is the man I have been looking for my whole life. We’ve both never been perfect husbands, or perfect humans, but in his arms I can be fragile and loved. I am home in them because I have never felt at home when it is not with him.
“I’m so sorry” he just keeps whispering in my ear.
I let out a noise that I can only liken to that of someone breaking inside in a way that will never be repaired. A long, guttural noise that sounds both like a wail and a scream, but from deep inside my body. It deeply upsets the dog who now is cowering, and under the weight of that noise I feel it all at once. I lose something of myself that I will never get back in that instant. The man I love watches as his husband is hurt more than he has ever witnessed.
In that moment, my whole world breaks and I cannot know yet that it will never be the same again.
Years later I still consider this one of the most bittersweet moments of my first marriage. Because that man had to not only tell me I had suddenly lost my father, but also help me through the following months and years before his divorce. It took such incredible strength to do that, and I will forever be grateful for him and his love. Especially on that day and in that moment that I cannot fully remember or comprehend. How do you thank someone for telling you something so horrible? It feels like a strange thought, but it defined him in a way I hadn’t been witness to yet.
What comes next is not a journey of happily ever afters. But of the scars that we share as human beings. Both him and I, but more importantly, you and I. You reading this book and maybe coming to learn something about your own journey, your own pain, and (I hope) your own happiness.
I have always believed that the universe only gives us what we can handle in life, and while that will never be a fair burden to bear, it will shape us into the people we are meant to be.
I don’t look at scars as something negative. In fact I proudly wear mine – the emotional, physical and mental ones – to remember how far I have come. I want to share with you some of the scars that have led me to the man I am today. And I hope in doing so, I can help you to embrace your own.