Things that keep me up at night ...

Sometimes I'm scared that my one shot at that head-over-heels, inseparable best friends kind of love was my heady, but doomed, relationship with my ex-husband.

Time passes

August 2. We picked the long weekend, because he thought it would help him remember the date. Bam Margera did the same thing. Plus, we said, it would make transport for out of town guests easier. (Incidentally, it was also my high school boyfriend's birthday.)

I wore a gold dress. Made promises for the future. Used words like "forever". Listened to everyone speak about how they knew we were going to last, because we were so obviously, deeply in love.

That was three years ago. God, has it really been three years? Sometimes, it feels like a lifetime. Like it happened to a stranger.

But then, there's the vivid, all too recent memories. The smell of the fresh cut grass. The sprinkling of rain as we signed the documents under the gazebo. My father's somewhat shaky hand and emotional voice as he walked me down the aisle - they feel like they happened minutes ago.

Yesterday was my wedding anniversary. The logical part of my brain says that I should be over it. It's no biggie. It's just another day.

But still, even in the middle of an amazing trip to New York, I had occasional flashbacks. Bittersweet memories. Feelings of loss, regret, guilt and failure.

Last year, I used that fateful day of the second of August to break the news to people, hiding in bed under the covers as worried phone calls came in from friends and family, just wishing for a reprieve from their sympathy. From the guilt I felt. From the feeling of failure. From the fear of rebuilding my life from scratch.

This year, I swore it would be different. I planned a fun trip, with friends determined to make the most of my first trip to New York. I promised myself I wouldn't cry. It wasn't so much that I needed a distraction as that I needed to create good memories on that day. And I did. But, I still felt emotionally charged all weekend. And, in moments of silence, those few minutes when everything stopped, I felt a little misty. I don't miss being married. We were terrible at it. And, by the end, we were terrible together. We even made each other terrible people.

But, I think, the day makes me sad, and is so hard, because of what it was supposed to represent: Hope. Forever. Love.

I don't know if I'll ever have that again. I am grateful I had it once. And while I'm very, very happy with my life, there is certainly a sense of loss that comes with any kind of ending.

I guess, the best I can do is just hope that every year, that date gets a little bit easier. And maybe learn to acknowledge that Simcoe day may never just be another normal day for me.

(Photo: About Image Photography)

Get it together, lady!

At least, that's what a big to-do list on my computer yells at me each time I fire it up these days.

Over the past year, I've had a really hard time staying on top of things. Partly, I blamed an active social life - who has time to do laundry? - but, in reality, it's kind of the last vestiges of my post-separation, total world meltdown.

Last spring, I was focussed on the top-level issues: Hey, I need a place to live! Everything I've known for the past seven years is done! What do I do next?

It took all summer pretty much to take care of those major issues, shelter, furniture, the division of stuff, the breaking of the news and the slow creation of my life, and identity, as a single girl.

By the fall, things were looking pretty good. I had a full-time job. I had a roof over my head. I had friends. I was in great shape and completed my first half-marathon. I even paid off my student loan. I was even kind of sleeping,

Then, things started to spiral again. Not in the same end of my marriage way, which was kind of like jumping off a sheer cliff and praying that at some point I would land, but, in a slow, it was getting harder to tread water kind of way. I knew, and ignored, that things weren't quite right.

My hours changed at work. A lot of nights. No regularity. The erratic work schedule threw my already less-than-awesome sleep habits into a regular three or four hour stretch if I was lucky, plus naps when I could get them. Luckily, I have a lot of energy, I thought.

Then, my energy started to wane. I started packing on the pounds - leaving me (still) the heaviest I've ever been. I blamed my schedule, and my love of gin and tonics.

The real warning flag came when I started to get winded walking up stairs. I was still working out at least a couple times a week, and had just ran 21K. Two flights of stairs should not have been an issue. I was exhausted, physically, all the time. I felt sluggish. Crabby. Forgetful.

But, like so many other things, my regular doctor's appointment had slipped.

Post-separation life reminds me a lot of when I was a kid, and I would walk out into the ocean out over my head. Treading water, I would feel a little bit vulnerable, but also pretty safe -- right up until a wave would take me under, and I'd wrestle with the undertow, trying to figure out which way was up. The first few months were a steady stream of crashing waves, by the fall, it was less frequent, taking things like, "Oh yeah, I was on his health insurance" or "Damn. All my bills and ID are in the wrong name," to throw me off balance just a little.

And taking care of such problems are time consuming. Changing my name took days and days and hours and hours of waiting.

But I did finally find a doctor near me and book a checkup. What felt like a gazillion rounds of blood tests later (another crashing wave - no one to hold my hand through the medical panic, and the hours and hours in the waiting room alone), it turned out that, while my terrible sleep habits and weird schedule weren't doing me any favours, an underactive thyroid was also kicking my butt.

So, I started taking some medication to deal with it. By the middle of the winter, my energy levels were coming back, but my moods still hadn't stabilized. Every Friday and Saturday before I went into the office, I sobbed. Flipping back and forth between days and nights was doing a number on me physically and mentally, but I was so grateful just to finally have a full-time job - the thing I'd been dreaming of since day one of J-school - I was afraid to complain too much.

I tried staying up all night. I tried sleeping more. I tried eating at regular hours, or as regular as possible. That post-work 3 a.m. snack is hard to replicate on a normal day. When I was working days, I would try to wake up extra early, with the dream of actually being able to fall asleep that night before 2 a.m. When I worked late into the night, I tried night shades, blinds and earplugs to convince my body to sleep past 10 a.m. It worked sometimes.

So things continued to slip. Like the health insurance. Going to the dentist. Getting the new glasses that I've needed since before an electrician working on my previous home put a night table on top of my current pair.

But I trudged along. Until finally, one night, I burst into tears in the office. Luckily, it was a weekend, so I still hope very few people saw. After a year, I'd reached my breaking point. The next week, I finally asked if there was anything that could be done. I polished my resume in case there wasn't. But, it turned out to be fixable.

My hours have somewhat normalized, and, now on week two, I'm getting at least seven hours of sleep most nights and starting to feel a little less prone to an outburst of crying. I'm working out regularly again without feeling like fainting or I'm moving through jello. I may even have lost some weight (fingers crossed).

But, coming out of the haze of the past few months, I'm a little shocked by the stuff I've let slip. I was always the queen of the to-do list. Phenomenally organized.

While I hope that no friends felt too neglected, and, thanks to modern technology, all my bills got paid on time, basic life things like visiting the dentist and buying a much-needed new mattress just never happened.

So, when I found out that my schedule was changing, I sat down at my computer and started the list of the things I needed to take care of, titling it, in screaming boldface, "Get it together, already, lady!" From the basic, finally picking up drycleaning items, to the pressing, renewing my passport before my trip at the end of the month, and the just generally helpful, figuring out how to use my newly acquired health insurance, the list had about forty items on it. And keeps growing.

But, I've managed to tackle about half of them so far. And the rest, I believe, will come. As an added bonus, all of the divorce work is finally done - no more negotiations, no more chances for dragging heels, no more treks to the lawyers' office.

Maybe, hopefully, I'll keep my head above water this time.

Weddings freak me out

My baby brother — the one who, when I moved out, had that scraggly hockey hair and communicated in grunts with his equally monosyllabic friends — is getting married.

I simultaneously want to pull out the streamers, throwing him a congratulation party, and whisk him away for a weekend, asking him if there is really nothing else he wanted to do with his life first.

My parents are over the moon. He’s thrilled. She — and she’s a lovely girl — is already eagerly wedding planning. I’m happy for them. Really. But it’s also triggered every neurotic bone in my body.

First, I’m scared for them. I believe in marriage, still. I don’t think I’ve yet become that bitter divorcee who says, “Bah, men, who needs them?” But I too got married young and felt like I was missing out.

I spent my relationship and marriage feeling like a supporting player in my own life. I was the backup, the caregiver, the one to set up the punchline for someone who needed to be the centre of attention. At all
times. I learned not to let that spotlight waver, biting my tongue, not making jokes or adding to the conversation. I retreated, because I was young and I loved him and, I told myself, he needed it more than I did.

They’re not the same couple we were. They’re lower key. Less fiery. If we were a fireworks display, they’d be the even burn of a campfire. I think it’s easier, maybe even happier, that way. They don’t have the same problems of stability, emotions and big, conflicting, competitive dreams that got in their way.

But loving someone means giving up a bit of yourself. And marrying them means linking your needs, wants and plans together, sacrificing those goals that aren’t shared, at least, you tell yourself, temporarily while the finances, priorities and whatnot work themselves out. Those shelved plans become daydreams, fantasies and, finally, regrets.

Go climb Everest, I want to tell him. Go on an epic road trip with your friends. Get away from the grocery shopping, the coupon clipping, the routine. If you still miss each other then, when it’s not a predetermined part of your normal day, go reach your goals, realize your dreams and then start a beautiful life together. But take a little time to be selfish. Do something just for you. Because marriage is supposed to be long, and your unburdened 20s are short.

And then, the camera focuses on me. The bitter, divorced older sister, who is already getting sympathy over her sadly unattached status. My parents aren’t aware of any dating I’ve done, because, those boys were supporting players in my narrative, coming in to teach me a lesson, lend a hand, make me laugh, but I never wanted to offer my family any illusion I’d be bringing them home to meet them.

I could have told them about the way the one’s smile made me weak in the knees — that perfect mix of boyish mischief and disarming, why can't I keep my hands off you charm. The one who was so far off my established type — and believe me, I have a type — occupying a world so different from my own that those treasured pockets of time spent together enthralled me. The boy who remains my 'What if', an impossible, unachievable perfect regret, who I still make a little sigh when I talk about. The one who disarmed me with his goofy charm and made the hours disappear.

But then, of course, I'd have to tell them when it falls apart. That he'd moved on. That I got bored. That we worked so much better as friends. And then my mother, with her sympathies, would make me feel worse about not caring about them more. A tear shed here, a curse word, perhaps, and for me the mourning process was over and these men resumed their rightful spots in my life as friends, confidants, purveyors of drinks and books to borrow. I love these men, but I was never in love with these men. I never wanted to love them, and they, I don’t think, ever wanted my love in return. My affection, yes, and my company. But that's just not something I can explain to my small town, WASPy family.

So, instead, they think I live a spinster's life, curling up in front of the TV when I arrive home in the wee hours of the morning, with a bowl of cereal, some flannel pjs and a wish that the phone would ring. I tell them about my ‘fake boyfriends’ — not to be confused with the Fake Boyfriend, a lovely gent who is still in my life with absolutely zero romantic repercussions — wonderful, smart, charming men with whom I share meals, evenings, and cookies with absolutely zero tension or electricity. Men who lend me a hand, a shoulder to cry on and big, enveloping hugs when I need them.

But these are not the men upon whom wedding hopes are pinned. (Though my mother persistently wonders why none of them find me attractive or charming enough to even try to date. She also counsels me to marry any one of them in a decade’s time, to avoid the onset of crazy cat ladyness.)

So, part of me fears the wedding for the questions. The pity over how sad and alone I must be in that big, soulless Upper Canadian city they call “Taranta."

I have anxiety over finding the right date — because flying stag leaves me unprotected, a lesson learned, and suffered, as I was hung out to dry at my grandmother’s funeral. He must be tall. Look good in a suit. A decent dancer. Able to hold his liquor. Charming enough to put friends and family at ease, but aloof enough to prevent the, “Hey, you might be next,” banter. I have two years to find such a person. I don’t have high hopes.

And, perhaps most of all, I fear the disappointment. The fact that I’ve been there, done that and all the hope for me is lost. Worse even than the pressure to stop living it up single style is when they believe it will never happen for me again. That there’s not that hope of falling in love and starting a fresh life with someone, because I’m unlovable, unyielding and unable to compromise. That my mother believes I’ll never find someone able to keep up with me, and I’ll never slow down for anyone.

I don’t know why I find it so heartbreaking. I can’t imagine ever wanting the big white dress and updo and whole to-do ever again. But I guess I’d like to believe that the option still exists. That relationships aren’t a dead-end alley that I’ll never venture into again. That, like all in all other parts of my life, I have endless possibilities when it comes to romance.

I have up to two years to brace myself. Through the planning, the conversations, the wedding comparisons. Two years to come to terms with the way they see me. Two years to find a date. And two years to find a stylish dress to hide a flask under for the wedding day.

Plans

I don't have a five-year plan. I don't have a one-year plan. I just made plans for a trip in August and bought some concert tickets for the summer, and that feels pretty huge to me.

Now, it's not like I dread the future. In fact, I am ready to embrace it, run into it, jump into it and see what it has to throw at me. I will stand on my balcony and scream into the Toronto night, "Bring it!"

I just, perhaps, have commitment issues.

I used to have long-term plans. I had a kitchen reno mapped out. I had savings commitments. I had vacation plans. Kids were on the radar as a possibility someday. There was career maps, intentions to someday move outside of Toronto, perhaps Ottawa's suburbs or Kingston, and settle down properly.

Then, things changed, quickly. Planning a week in advance was difficult. Anything further, I was wishy-washy at best. My life became a lot about making up for lost time. Reconnecting with friends. Meeting new gents. Partying. Living it up. Racking up life experiences and enjoying some of the silliness I never got to have in university.

I'm still, maybe, working some of that out of my system. But perhaps most shockingly, and impressive, of all, I'm starting to feel properly settled in my life. A schedule change at work has me hopeful for a routine. I've got fun sports commitments. I've renewed my lease for my apartment, and, after another Ikea trip, should have everything just the way I want it. I've got steady, solid friends I can count on. I've now been in Toronto for four years, and it's finally feeling like my city and maybe, almost, my home.

So, of course, I find myself starting to think a little more about the future. I've been saving for a condo downpayment in kind of an abstract way. I have a few travel dreams. I've started to think about career development and maybe, if I can buckle down and commit to the time, doing my masters in political science. I miss learning. And when else in my life am I going to be unburdened enough to just pursue whatever my little heart desires?

Because, if anything, my quarter-century crisis has taught me that anything can happen. And, while I'm good at being single, there may be some day where a guy comes along and I'm going to need to consider someone else's needs. I am not even going to pretend that I'll let anyone, ever, slow me down again, I can't pretend that it wouldn't change my lifestyle. So, I'm going to seize the moment, while also acknowledging that just maybe I'm starting to grow up. I'm getting a do-over, and I'm liking it.

Maybe 26 will be the year where I stop making up for lost time and start moving forward. Again.

That dreaded question ...

In my world, my separation was eons ago. It's practically another lifetime - certainly a different life. Long enough that some friends forget I ever was married, though it's not a fact I try to hide. Instead, I choose to crack jokes and assume that my status as a single, now unmarried lady is common knowledge.

But, apparently, it's not. Saturday marks my four year anniversary with Toronto (don't worry, our love grows stronger every year) and in my time here, I've been an engaged lady, a married lady, a complete mess, a separated and divorced lady, and now am embracing life as a single gal. Maybe it's not so surprising that not everyone kept up.

So, last week, while out with friends, I ran into a former colleague. We hadn't seen each other since the last Ontario election campaign - when I was frantically planning my wedding.

We, of course, ask each other how things are, exchange updates and he proudly shows off his wedding ring. I congratulate him, sincerely, and then the dreaded pause.

So, I hold up my bare hand, somewhat proudly, and in the middle of the crowded bar, say "I'm not anymore."

Stunned silence, first, of course. I should really learn to break the news gently. I've got very few secrets, and I've had loads of time to get used to it. For others, I guess it can still be shocking.

To this gent's credit, he only paused for a beat. Then asked, "What happened!?!"

Oh, that dreaded question. I understand it. Everyone wants a pat, simple answer. They want reassurance that it isn't going to happen to them. They want to hear that we weren't in love. That something horrible and sudden happened. That there was a clear sign, and explanation, for what happened.

Of course, it's not anyone's business. And not a story for a crowded bar, even if it was. So I laugh, say, "Oh, that's far too long of a story."And move on.

Or at least I do so briefly. But I continue to dwell on that question. What the hell did happen?

I too wish there had been signs that things weren't going to work out. That we couldn't overcome all. That we were going to grow apart. Grow miserable. Transform from two madly in love, in sync people into a couple who grudgingly clung to each other out of fear of change, comfort in familiarity. The type of people who couldn't imagine life without each other, only to realize that we were really just spending each day ignoring, avoiding and torturing each other.

But there were no early warning signs. At least none that I can recall. And this time last year, I was going over every moment of our relationship with a fine-toothed comb, looking for any indication that I'd turned a blind eye to those flashing warning signs. I couldn't find any. It worked right up until it didn't.


I think some degree of optimism, blind bliss if you will, is necessary for being in love and being in a relationship. If you don't have faith, how can it ever work? Being in love is terrifying. But if there were assurances, it wouldn't be so exhilarating. So, I guess you just have to let yourself fall, and hope for the best. Fight to make it work. All the while knowing that sometimes it will, and sometimes it won't.

It doesn't have to be all or nothing

I'm 25 years old and I've had two boyfriends. In fact, I only ever dated two boys. I married the second.

Not exactly a man-eater. I believed, to some extent, that there was an expectation on me to marry every gentleman with whom I decided to spend some time.

After my separation, I struggled with this. I adore men. I have wonderful male friends, and delightful suitors. I'm often found in a group of gents. But, I didn't want to marry or even fall in love with any of them.

At first I felt guilty. Then, slowly, I learned to appreciate the importance of being in "like." My short-term romantic entanglements were fun. We could still be friends afterwards. They'd teach me things, take me places, comfort and entertain me. I learned to shed the guilt and just go with the flow, enjoying exploring what I like in a fella, and what I don't.

Then this week, while browsing Thought Catalog, I came across the "Open letter to the men I've casually dated." This piece was an eloquent justification of what I was feeling, so I just had to share.

As for what's next for me, who knows? I'm in no rush for boyfriend number three. For now, I'm just enjoying the pleasures of being in like.

On being lonely

The month of April was a biggie. Signing my divorce papers. Craziness at work. The not-so-sudden but still surprising death of my grandmother. A month-long self-imposed hiatus from men. An overnight trip that turned into a week, facing my extended family and dodging questions about the location of my husband and my future as a crazy cat lady. I've never felt so alone.

But, I guess I should start at the beginning. Signing the papers felt anti-climatic, sad and triumphant at the same time. I was thrilled to finally put that messiness behind me, but at the same time, it was the ultimate acknowledgement of my total and complete failure with my ex. Because, as terrible as things ended, at one point, he was my everything, and, being young, I'd thought that that was all that mattered and all we needed. Realizing that crazy love isn't enough to get you through, well, I think that's a tough lesson for anyone, at any age.

But, I was doing OK. A little sensitive, sure, but fully aware of the fact that my life is now where I want it to be, and that we're both much better off without being part of each other's lives.

The day after signing, my parents called. My grandmother had a stroke. I was sad, but there was nothing I could do, and she'd likely hang in there for a little while, so I trudged along, tensing up with every ring of the telephone.

I decided to go ahead with a trip I'd booked to meet up with a high school friend, a 30-hour jaunt of shopping and girl talk, as a bit of a treat for myself. I missed her, and it had been years. Shared history is a powerful thing, and there's nothing more amazing that being able to still finish sentences and recount silly stories of when we accidentally dated the same boy or took out the rowboat to catch jellyfish. (Yes, I really did this.)

On the way to the airport, I got the call I'd been anxious about for the previous five days. My grandmother - a 91-year-old, fiercely independent, intelligent woman - had passed away. I went ahead with my trip, emailing work, changing flights, and taking care of the required business in such things in stolen moments in cars, malls and airport terminals.

Sitting on the tarmac, tears in my eyes but coping, I was suddenly totally preoccupied with one thought: Do I tell my ex? He'd known her, very well. He'd been part of my family. A year ago, he would have flown across the country with me to be there for my family, and himself been totally devastated by the news. And, while I didn't want his hand-holding (though I certainly reached out to some friends for the support I craved), I debated whether I should tell him. Would he want to know?

I thought about how I'd feel if it was the other way around. I suspect I have less anger about our un-marriage than he does, and more guilt, but I figured I'd want to know. So I sent him a text and put it out of my mind. No further contact, but duty done.

My trip to Montreal, while I felt slightly off kilter, was lovely. But by Monday night at 11 p.m., in the Halifax airport in my third province in two days, I'm sure I seemed an absolute fright when my little brother picked me up at the gate. I wanted to collapse in his arms and sob. But we're not that kind of family. And there were many things to do. I still hadn't had time to mourn.

I slept for several hours the next day, then had to prepare for my impromptu "vacation." I took care of necessary tasks - ensuring I had clothes for the week, buying my moisturizer and face wash - and the day disappeared. Next thing I knew, I was surrounded by grieving family, most of whom I hadn't seen in years.

As the next few days passed like a blur - funeral homes, cup after cup of tea, pockets stuffed with candy, trying to keep my calm, cool and collected facade up. Crying in front of my family is not something that happens. In fact, while I freely admit both to friends and online to crying, there are actually very few people who have actually even seen me do it.

My parents, of course, were very busy. My brother was taking care of his girlfriend, who really is part of our family. Which left me, solo, answering the regular reel of semi-interested questions from strangers, "Oh, I'm in Toronto now."

"I'm going back this weekend."

"Yes, I like it there. No, I don't think I'll be moving back any time soon, but I do try to come home when I can."

And, surprisingly for such a gossipy small town, "My husband? Oh. He's not here."

Which is true. Of course, I no longer have a husband, but how does one answer these questions when emotions are so raw? I told one person, "Well, actually, we're no longer together." The answer was sympathy for how hard that, especially when combined with my grandmother's death, was on my family. Gee, thanks. I'm pretty sure my family, even my mother, is OK with it now. Maybe even grateful that it's done and settled and my life has continued on in what I believe to be a pretty spectacular fashion.

So I muddled through. Alone. Fending off the questions of how lonely I must be in this big city all by myself. How it's OK that I never want to have kids -- an assumption that I'll never be given the chance again. Even smiling as family members encouraged me to marry a friend in a few years, so I don't die alone and get eaten by dogs. (OK, it was more along the lines of be lonely, lose my mind and become a cat lady. Small comfort).

All this was also during a time that I'd semi-successfully sworn off men. Not because I'd had a bad experience. Not because I don't adore them - I most certainly do. Not even because I was dissatisfied with the current state of things. But because I'd let someone I'd seen for a little while make me feel guilty about my rather casual, friendly approach to dating, when they'd wanted more. I didn't want to break hearts, so I made a clean break of my gentlemen friends, and removed myself from the scene, to give myself breathing space, processing time and also out of respect for this sweet guy who just happened to want way more of me than I was willing, or able, to give.

The combination of death, being suddenly out-of-province and home, but not ensconced in the typical routines of Nova Scotia family life, the sleep deprivation, and all this other stuff meant there were a lot of raw emotions during this week. It was unbelievably hard.

I came back, finally, to Toronto, feeling like a failure. A spinster who was going to be eaten by dogs. Thoroughly sick of all the sideways sympathetic glances and off-hand comments about how it must be nice to buy shoes to fill the void in my life. (Actually, I just really like shoes. Happy, sad, I'll take any excuse.)

And so I wallowed for a few days. I finally mourned my grandmother. Shook off the trappings of the Nova Scotia life that I'd never wanted and moved away from eight years ago when I started university. Appreciated the joys of my own bed, my friends, my job and my life here -- which is perfect just the way it is, without a pet to keep me company or a (ugh) baby on the way. There will always be people who don't understand my life or my choices, but it's got to be better to please myself than allow myself to be miserable because I'm not living up to their expectations.

So, finally, I'm on the mend. And, instead of feeling so sad sitting alone eating cereal in front of my computer -- as is, apparently, the life rural Nova Scotians imagine for me -- I cherish my evenings alone as much as I do the ones when I'm out. I cherish my good friends, my gentlemen friends, my coworkers and the cute barista downstairs. The misery of a few weeks ago is thankfully, mercifully, almost a distant memory. And, with the election, royal wedding and all that jazz finally done, this post that I've wanted to write for two weeks has finally been finished.

I'm back. 

Alternate realities

Maybe it's because my one-year "anniversary" is rapidly approaching, or maybe it's because I watch too much Fringe, but today I found myself contemplating the different paths I could have chosen this time last year.

First, there was maintaining the status quo. An option, that, had I stayed the course, could have brought miseries far too unbearable to put into words. Remaining the person who couldn't admit to a mistake or failure, sinking deeper and deeper into a lonely, isolated existence. Seeing divorce as an impossibility, and only one now unfathomable way out. I wonder how much longer, if at all, I could have lasted like that. How much longer until that carefully maintained veneer of happiness cracked and someone - be it a friend or some poor, unsuspecting stranger at a coffee shop - found out that my marriage was in shambles, and how much I dreaded going home at the end of the work day.

In the second "reality", maybe if I would have stuck it out, things could have gotten better. A year later, there would certainly still be struggles, but perhaps, had I called in outside help, I could have gotten what I'd been wanting and waiting for for so long: A return to the sweet, thoughtful and supportive person I'd fallen for, and an equal partner. On this path, in time, we'd be fixing up our home and planning to expand our family. While this is what I had longed for, back then it felt like an impossible dream and an unachievable outcome. And now, it just feels naive.

In the third, I followed my gut instinct and fled. Far, far away. To wherever I could find work. Figuring that I was starting over whether I stayed in Toronto or moved, it seemed like it wouldn't be all that messy to launch my new single life and re-find myself in a new city. This was feasible, but it's something that I'm now glad I didn't do. Despite feeling lonely in Toronto, I had more friends and more roots here than I'd realized. That support in the dark, difficult days kept me going. I don't know how well I would have fared without all the people who stepped up to pick up the pieces and give me things to look forward to on those days when I just didn't want to get out of bed.

And then there's this one. My true reality. Full of messes, complications, and months of breaking the news to people, over and over again, that, to borrow an expression used today by a friend, my Beta test marriage experiment had not been a success. While I may not have always made the best decisions, I can't regret any of the ups and downs on this very bumpy path, because somehow it brought me a bunch of wonderful friends and genuine happiness -- and it's this reality that I'll be celebrating on my "anniversary." While it may seem strange to throw a party marking what was certainly one of the worst days of my life so far, I think it's fitting. I'm reclaiming the day for myself, and replacing all that grief and woe with positive energy. Because, unlike this time last year, I know that I'm going to more than survive the coming year -- I'm going to embrace and enjoy it.

What are the odds?

Yesterday, I did a charity fun run. At only 5K, and the relatively civilized hour of 10 a.m., it was, hopefully, going to be a breeze. The run went fine, good even, but there was a little bump in the road: I saw my ex.

Lined up at the start line with my friends, not five feet away, I saw the face that I used to wake up next to every morning. Maybe I'm still trained to seek him out of a crowd - after all, I was there with 2,000 other runners, and I didn't even see the friends I was trying to find.

Being ever mature, responsible and calm, how did I react? I hid. I immediately ducked behind a friend. And said, in shocked tones, "Look over to your right. No I mean my right, your left. Can you believe it?"

Then, I started to wonder whether he'd see me. I was wearing a hat he gave me, but everything else has changed. My hair is shorter. My running gear is different. After boot camp and running and my other activities, my body has changed a bit. I like to think, when I'm not crouched down hiding out, I even stand a little straighter.

In maddeningly frustrating girl fashion, I also started to question myself. Why didn't I put on makeup this morning? If he saw me, would he notice that I'd put on weight? What about how tired I looked? Would it worry him like it used to, or would he take some pleasure in it? See it as evidence that I don't cope as well without him? (In reality, it's the time change, my crazy schedule and a middle of the night wake up call on Friday due to the wave of disasters in Japan.)

I didn't talk to him. I didn't make eye contact. I was pleased to see he was still working out, a habit he started after our breakup, and that he was there with his new girlfriend and what looked like a group of friends. Almost a year ago, we were both in really bad places, and it's good to know that he's doing OK, even if it is details gleaned from a frozen, deer-in-the-headlights moment when I caught sight of him at the starting line.

But, the whole experience definitely surprised me, and shook me up a little. I mean, I know Toronto's not that big of a city, but we've managed to not see each other anywhere in months and months. I think the last time we saw each other was in September. Because of that limited contact, it's easy to think of my life in two parts, old and new, before April 2010 and after April 2010. Obviously, it's not so clear cut as that.

Trauma

Maybe it's the dreary weather. Maybe it's the looming one year anniversary. The acknowledgment that, for the first time in my life, I spent a year alone, flying solo, and it wasn't terrible. In fact, parts of it were terrific.

But, admittedly, some days the trauma still slaps me in the face.

The suddenness with which my life changed, dramatically. How I woke up one morning with a best friend, a husband, a pet, a house, belongings and a life plan, and, within a few hours, had nothing. Or everything, depending on my frame of mind. Because that level of misery isn't really living. It just looks perfect from the outside.

That said, what makes it harder to work through, is also that, of course, it wasn't all bad. Parts of that life were amazing. Wonderful moments. Like falling in love. Being able to finish each others' sentences. Knowing that someone always had your back. Right up until they didn't anymore.

The smallest things can trigger pangs of loss, and drive me deep back inside my own head.

For example, recently, one gentleman friend sweetly put on one of his favourite songs for me, not knowing that it was the song I danced to at my wedding. The song my ex sang to me as we fell in love, strumming his guitar on campus as we thought we could take the world on together.

Wonderful memories. But also reminders of what I had, and what I don't anymore. Making me realize that I really didn't lose everything in one fell swoop, but rather it slowly eroded over time. You don't fall out of love quickly, waking up one day next to a stranger. Rather it disappears over time, one argument, one put-down, one conflicting priority at a time.

And, perhaps, much like falling out of love, mourning that loss doesn't come quickly. Days get easier. Simpler. But an arbitrary anniversary doesn't mean that I'll wake up that morning and be totally over it - the good parts and the bad. It's going to take more time.

Stopping. Just for a beat

This week, I was compared to the Energizer Bunny. And, while I find the little dude a little annoying with his constant percussion, I do understand the parallel with my social schedule. Since Saturday, I've attended a board game party, hit up a birthday party for someone I didn't know, went for brunch, played dodgeball, went out for dinner, went on a coffee date, went out for pints with a friend, did two boot camp sessions, met another friend for a run, went skating, went for a walk with a friend, sang karaoke, hosted a few friends for drinks, oh, and worked. Full time. Plus a couple freelance pieces.

So, it wouldn't surprise anyone to hear that I was thinking about taking a break. Hiding out for an afternoon, or even a day.

But it bothers me.

Not because I'm tired, though I certainly could use some more sleep. Not because it's dull - I've got plenty of stuff to keep me occupied. Not because I feel like I'm missing out on fun elsewhere - though I very well could be. It's because I have the urge to hermit. And that feeling just kills me.

January and February have always been tough months for me. I know that the beginning of the year is supposed to be about fresh starts, but it always feels dreary and routine. And it's the time of year when the darkness can find a crack in my armour and seep in, robbing me of my interest, my energy, my get up and go. The creeping that makes me think, "Oh, the dishes can be tackled tomorrow," or "I don't really need to pop out to the shop." The kind of feelings that make getting up and getting dressed feel like a real accomplishment, instead of a quick 15 minute task to tackle so I can race out the door and find my next adventure.

Today, I accomplished the bare minimum. I tidied my apartment somewhat from last night's get-together. I ran the dishwasher. I had a bath, and filed a piece that was on deadline. I sent out a few interview queries. And it all felt like so much work. But now, as I contemplate getting ready for work, I'm forcing myself to shake it off. I don't want to be dragging myself through the day, I want to be embracing it.

I don't want the darkness to win, sending me back to my still unmade bed, hair still wet, unable to concentrate even on a book or a TV show. So, I'm going to make some dinner. Do my makeup. And push myself to get through this one, knowing, at least on some level, that tomorrow will be better and I'll feel like I'm living in technicolour again, instead of gray scale.

Maybe that's why I pack my schedule so full. Why I'm always up for everything. Because, even if the evening is a dud, I can appreciate just having the energy and the interest to try.

On dating

By day, I'm a mild-mannered web editor. By night, I'm a 25-year-old who's striving to live life to the fullest, make up for lost time and have a hell of a lot of fun. It means a lot of sleepless nights. A few steep bills for bars and cabs. Lots of teeny tiny dresses and towering heels. And, maybe, a little bit of a reputation for being fun, fearless, a wee bit reckless and even a tiny bit wild.

Obviously, my quest for new adventures has included a lot of new experiences over the past 10 months - a half-marathon, a ball hockey team, a tattoo, climbing the CN Tower, rock climbing and karaoke, to name a few. But my desire to embrace life - the beginnings, the endings and the messy bits, too - also involves romance, and, as a result, a lot of heart-related messy bits.

The question that I'm always asked is "When do you think you'll be ready to date/have a relationship again?" The dating part, I'm all over. The relationship is tougher. I've dipped my toe into dating, but remain fiercely protective of my current life - I'm not ready to make the compromises with my schedule, my living space and my "Why not?" approach to whatever plan is hatched. I figure eventually a guy will come along who will be able to keep up, and then making those compromises won't seem life a sacrifice. I want my next big love to be spectacular. Fireworks, baby.

While I'm not out actively seeking relationships, I enjoy exploring out the opportunities that do come my way. Meaning a string of largely unsuitable, but lovely, suitors. Many of whom remain a part of my life in decidedly not romantic ways. And each one of them has taught me something important, changed me, and left me feeling a little bit more ready for more. So, in a way of both explaining the romantic side of things - which I have, until now, largely glossed over here, despite it being a rather important part of my life, and perhaps, even thanking those fellows whose numbers, however briefly, topped my speed-texting list, a brief summary of my recent misadventures. (N.B. I give all of my gentleman callers nicknames. Partly because it's fun. Partly because the world is small, and there's a lot of overlap in social circles. Partly because otherwise, my friends would never keep track of them.)

1. My friends know him as many things, including "THE Boy" and by his place of employment. To me, he'll always be my "What if" guy. There was an undeniable attraction and connection, but we screwed it up. He came into my life while everything was falling apart. He saw more than his fair share of my crazy - in fact, he saw levels of crazy that I never even thought I was capable of. Had our timing been better, it could have been spectacular. And that's something I'll always regret. But he also taught me that I could still be made totally weak in the knees and that there are guys out there who can challenge all the different aspects of my personality - the news nerd, the sporty girl, the arts lover and the social butterfly, for starters. Out of all of my gentleman friends, he's the one who set the impossibly high bar for what I want in my life. One that not anyone who has followed has quite been able to meet. And how can I not be thankful for someone who showed me that such a special thing is not only possible, but essential?

2. Fake Boyfriend. Or FBF. Also known as my "Twittercrush" and by his place of employment. He was fun, and built a lot of my Ikea furniture. There was a definite spark between us, but neither of us was really in a place to commit to anything - thus the "fake." I was scared people would judge me for moving on, he was scared of seeming predatory, so we, to our detriment, kept our fling a secret. He was convinced I wasn't ready for a relationship - and, in retrospect, he was probably right, if a little harsh in vocalizing his diagnosis - and, quite frankly, I'm not sure if he was really all that into me. But we had a few fun months, and, in addition to his mad handyman skills, he was actually a really good friend to me and support in my time of transition. From him, I learned that I needed to improve my communication skills and explain what I wanted - or at least put into words that I didn't know. I'm still not good at that one. He challenged me. And reminded me that flirting is an awful lot of fun,

3. Old Dude. Kind of self-explanatory. And by old, we're talking almost daddy territory. The first time we went out, I didn't think it was really a date. I thought he was just being friendly. I went to a movie with him too, as a means of trying to be friends. He somehow managed to insult my weight, my home province, my attitude towards relationships, my social life and my personality throughout the two evenings we spent together. He's one of the few who's not still in my life, but he did teach me that not all guys deserve a second chance, and that life's too short to waste time with high-maintenance men who seem to think that dissing a girl will improve their chances with her.

4. A gentleman my friends know as "Mutual Friend." Because he has the potential to be a great friend, and a great boyfriend - for someone else. Our flirtation was brief. There was no spark. We wanted, and still want, different things. There was, however, a lot of signs of his being high maintenance - which is not what I need. His was a lesson in letting a guy down. Often. And that even when you think you're being clear with your intentions, sometimes people will still misinterpret them. And that as much as it sucks to be the mean one, it's even worse when, in your attempts to be nice, you leave the door open a crack and have to do it all over again.

5. The Hipster. The name he's known by to my friends is far too specific for the web. Another brief flirtation, he still pops in and out of my life from time to time. We always have fun, and fascinating conversations. He taught me that people with divergent priorities, personalities and interests can still have a connection -- and that guys won't always call when they say they will. And that when they don't, it's OK to hold it against them. Even if you're still friends.

6. Hockey Boy. Thus named for his interest in, you guessed it, hockey. Sharing a place of employment with a previous suitor, his moniker had to be a little less specific. I had a huge crush on him. We have a ton of shared interests and shared friends, and I got to know him very well over a serious text messaging routine, thanks to conflicting schedules. We had fun together, and had a wonderful habit of support and compliments. The basis for a wonderful friendship. When I finally confessed my crush, after an agonizingly long wait for a response, he told me he just didn't see me that way. Embarrassing. And sad. But we're all good now. And the experience taught me that it's better to go for it, and get an answer, than to wonder. Cause while it hurt, I don't regret for a second putting myself out there.

7. The Young Guy. Younger than I, but only by two years, geographically undesirable and a blast from my past. Way past. As in my teens. A wee crush, and a surprisingly lovely evening. He's been part of my life for years, in a totally platonic way, and we shared one late night of talks and hugs (totally PG, I swear!). And we talked about everything. From all the hairy details of my ruined relationships - he knew both my highschool boyfriend and my ex - to my life in Toronto and the many foibles of my family, even my grandmother's Alzheimer's and how my brother has changed since I moved away. It was comfortable and comforting. It was an ease of conversation, and a shared history, that I certainly miss in Toronto. And a wake-up call that someday, I want someone to be around long enough to not only know about my family and my secrets, but to be actively interested, empathetic and invested.

8. Part-Time Boyfriend. Or Trouble. He actually was around long enough that most of my friends started - gasp - using his real name. All along, I was warned that he wasn't a relationship guy. That he was commitment-phobic. As a fellow commitment-phobe, I figured I'd just see where it led. Over a couple months, we fell into a rather lovely routine of enjoying good conversation and each other's company. I had someone on my arm at parties, someone to talk to, and someone I could count on to fill in the "boyfriendy" role once or twice a week. And for the rest of the week, I could come and go as I pleased and maintain my fiercely independent lifestyle. Over time though, I got used to the routine. He was a pleasant habit, and I let other suitors slip. But he didn't. And he recently decided to go exclusive with someone who isn't me. Which, obviously, hurt. And, as with all recent wounds, still does a little. Because while I wasn't necessarily ready for full boyfriend mode, I had grown fond of him. We maybe weren't destined for a big love story, but we did have something. And I like to think that he wasn't lying when he said it was a tough decision to stop seeing me. He did teach me that I'm willing to let people into my life - he met my friends, I shared personal stories with him, and friends even knew I was seeing him, which are all massive steps for me - but that also, I'm not so good at casual. While I don't want someone to take care of me, or someone who makes me their number one priority, I do want someone who is at least interested enough in me to let their other suitors slip too. Cause I think I'm worth the undivided attention, even if it is only for a few hours a week over the course of a few months.

Other players have flitted in and out, a coffee here, a beer there. Guys like elevator boy and bar boy, who for various reasons just never became more than a passing memo in my Gmail calendar or a deleted contact on my phone. They don't make the list because they didn't win my affection - or disdain. They were just strangers, who remain strangers. 

If any of my nicknamed gents are reading this, well, you knew it was a possibility when you decided to date a writer! And, I do want to offer you all both my gratitude and my apologies. You each know why.

As for the next guy, and his shiny new nickname, we'll just have to see what life throws my way. Here's hoping for fireworks.

I will come back. Won't I?

I'm two night shifts away from my holidays in Nova Scotia. That, in itself, is huge for many reasons: Christmas is a massive, tradition-filled affair for my family; I missed last Christmas at home; it's my first festive season as a single, unmarried lady; it's my first holiday in six years without my ex; and it's my first trip back East since "coming out" as, essentially, a relationship failure. (Sometimes, the fact that I suck at relationships bothers me. Other times, as I lazily type away on my computer in the middle of the night after working a weird shift, knowing I can do whatever I want, I realize that I actually like living alone.)

Holiday pressures, holiday travel, and even the fact that I simply don't know what to do with myself when I'm not working all further compound the stress and anticipation for the holiday.

But above all else, I'm most worried about how I'm going to manage when it's over. I was discussing my last trip with a friend earlier today, and confessed to him that my last trip home resulted in me sobbing - like that ugly kind of full body grief sobbing - in the airport. What I didn't dare confess - and prayed that he didn't notice - was that even just talking about my return to Toronto, in that simple, superficial, 'Oh, I'm gone for a week' way, made me feel both weepy and anxious.

Obviously, it was an emotional time. And it's always hard to say goodbye to my family and friends and that delicious salt air. But there was more to it than that. I simply did not want to leave.

And that was, quite frankly, shocking. I'd been planning my exit strategy from middle-of-nowhere Nova Scotia from the moment I realized there was another bigger, brighter world out there. The second I could leave my hometown, I did. And while there were moments of homesickness, and a desire to visit, I never wanted to move back. When I talk about my hometown, I always say, "It's a great place to visit. For a few days."

But, since this summer, I've been incredibly sappy about it. I hear myself saying things like "I'd move back in a heartbeat. To the city though, not where I grew up." I never thought I'd say such a thing. I never thought I'd even look back. I say it. I feel it. But it wasn't until tonight - not even this morning while chatting with my friend did it make sense to me - why this summer hit me so hard and why, hopefully, this time will be different.

I'm connected to Nova Scotia. As I begrudge sounding like a Bluenoser, complain about how remote and rural my upbringing was and worship Joel Plaskett, I really do have the salt air in my veins. It's familiar, it's comforting, and it's mine. They're my people, they're my family and friends. I can walk down the street and see people I know. I can order in garlic fingers (when I visit my brother. There's no delivery in my parent's neck of the woods) until 2 in the morning, which used to feel positively decadent. Even though I moved out of my parent's house and community (it's not even a town. Seriously.) more than seven years ago I still have ties there in addition to my history.

And, especially this summer, I was feeling pretty rootless. There was nothing tying me to Toronto. I didn't have to worry about abandoning someone else to go chase a ridiculous job opportunity. I didn't have to compromise on where I lived. I had a few friends, yes, and many more now, but they were all new to my life. Even now, several months of relationship-building later, if I moved away, I would likely be missed, but no one would be devastated. Or even all that put out.

I had choices, and I hadn't yet made up my mind. And Nova Scotia welcomed me back with a bear hug, a pint of beer and a rendition of Farewell to Nova Scotia, performed by my brother and his band for me at a local bar, that was like waking up in the morning cozy and cuddled in bed with a steaming cup of tea, a newspaper and nowhere to go.

As opposed to my new and scary uncommitted relationship with Toronto - where we were just testing the waters, looking for chemistry and terrified to so much as hold hands in public - Nova Scotia, and Halifax in particular, was the one who got away. There wasn't a big breakup, because we just never tried. The timing, the lifestyles, we just couldn't make it mesh, so instead we carefully guarded our close relationship and were just left wondering, "What if?" Nova Scotia was the gent who knew to wake me up with a cup of tea in the morning and that I need a shower before I'm fit for the outside world. Who knew that I'm a workaholic and that sometimes someone just has to take care of me through a deadline, with a steady supply of tea, snacks and encouraging words, then hold me as I crash out on the sofa with a blanket and Amelie when there are just no words left. Nova Scotia was that man who never swept me off my feet. He was always there. And I just took him for granted and never gave him a proper chance.

Now, Nova Scotia's still there, alluring in its cozy flannel shirts and thoughtful familiarity. But Toronto - and getting bumped up to a full-time position at the Star - has seduced me like a hot fling, leaving me stunned and breathless. The ever well-dressed, eloquent Toronto may still play hard to get sometimes, and not always call when it says it will, but it has convinced me to give it a chance. And, I know, selfishly, that if Toronto and I burn out in a spectacular fashion - as all the best, most passionate relationships do - that Nova Scotia will still be waiting there to provide a shoulder to cry on and the support to get back on my feet.

So this time, hopefully, there will be fewer tears at the airport. And I will be able to appreciate the reprieve from the hot and heady Toronto lifestyle without being willing to throw it away entirely. But a part of me is still fearful that, as much as I love my life here now, that once I'm back in that welcoming East Coast embrace, I just might not have the strength to leave it.

Confession: I'm a lousy communicator

When it comes to writing, whether it's on Twitter or my blog or a column, the words just flow. I feel comfortable laying things (mostly) bare. But, when it comes to actually vocalizing, I've got a tendency to freeze up.

How bad is it? Friends who have witnessed it call it my "deer in the headlights" look. My best friend, when he saw it happen, was totally shocked. After expressing a level of worry that is, quite frankly, way deeper and emotional than our normal interactions - we both come from very WASPy families - he joked that in 24 years of knowing me, he'd never before witnessed a moment where I was speechless.

When faced with unpleasantness or confrontation, my posture improves (the only benefit!). I stand straight. Wide-eyed, I stare straight ahead without registering any emotion. No sadness. No anger. Just a wish for escape. My shoulders and fingers tense up, as does my jaw. My mouth just doesn't work. So I stand there, listening, silently. Maybe occasionally mustering up an "um" or "uh huh." Depending how badly it goes, I may be left shaking, crying, but still silent. Hours later, angry at myself, I finally find a way to work through my emotions, only then, when it's likely too late, do I figure out how to feel and respond.

Sometimes, this happens when faced with an argument. Other times, if someone asks me something I don't feel totally prepared to answer. A few times with a gentleman this summer, who would ask me big questions that, if pressed and forced to respond, I would just mumble half-hearted answers to, busying myself with buttons, pens, or preparing drinks instead of making eye contact.

In my personal life, I make a lot of jokes about how everyone has baggage, always ready to spin an inconsiderate comment into something we can all laugh at. And how my next gentleman friend better have strong arms ready for heavy lifting, as he's got to be ready to share the weight of those parcels.

But, honestly, sometimes the weight of that baggage really is too much to bear alone. And my inability to communicate is like a duffel packed with concrete blocks. I just can't continue to live with it. It's the product of a WASPy upbringing, in which we're more likely to discuss the weather than how we're feeling, exacerbated by years spent with someone who loved to debate and argue, and who thrived on confrontation. Someone with whom I could never win. So, at some point, instead of engaging - which I always found somewhat troublesome - I started shutting down.

And now, I've got to find ways to re-engage. Re-enter the world. Learn to explain how I feel in real time. In spoken words, not in writing. I've got to fix this, so I can have a fighting chance at maintaining my new friendships (I have no problem telling old friends exactly what I think of them!) and meaningful relationships.

I am improving. During a recent chat, where previously I would have answered "Sure!" to whatever was being said, if I could force my vocal cords to do anything at all, I was able, mostly, to stammer out a few sentences explaining how I felt. But, as always, there was so much more to say. And, being someone who thrives on words - their shapes, sounds, meanings, puns - the inability to access them hurts, well, beyond words.

Some things are simpler single

Yesterday I attended a press day with W Network host Candice Olson, and, as is often the case this time of year, talk turned to the holidays and various to-do lists.

I was able to proudly brag that I had mailed my holiday cards en route, and had finished up my shopping the day before!

Of course, everyone in the room turned and said, "Oh, I hate you! How do you do that!"

So, I replied, that, while I'm generally super organized, I was finding it way easier this year. When asked why, I had to fess up, laughing, and say, "Well, I'm recently divorced, so I've got half the shopping list, half the to-dos and half the people to wrangle this year!"

Shocked silence, for a beat or two, followed by everyone joining me in laughter.

Guess that's one way to minimize the holiday stress ...

Good days and bad days

Honestly, I am a very lucky person. I had a peaceful, perfectly idyllic childhood in the country with my still-married parents, my brother, a chocolate lab named Echo and, even, the stereotypical station wagon.

I did well in school, and played sports and participated in every extra-curricular I could while working average part-time jobs. I went to university to study what I loved, and then somehow managed to find a job doing it.

These days, I talk to my parents at least once a week. I love living in Toronto. I love my job, even on those days when, after editing seriously depressing stories or, god forbid, reading the comments section, my faith in humanity has taken a little bit of a beating.  I love my apartment in the sky, and my excellent, and ever-entertaining, groups of friends, who make sure that my social calendar is never lacking.

Really, I'd call it a pretty charmed existence. And most days, I am dance-in-the-kitchen kind of happy about life in general. I feel like I am not only in a good place, but I'm where I'm supposed to be.

Then there are the bad days. They sneak up on me when I've taken on a bit too much, or have had too little sleep or too little exercise. The times when I lose the strength to find my way out of my own head, and let myself get sucked into that dark place where I let the weight of my mistakes, and the drama of the past year, drag me down.

These times have become rare. Quite frankly, my well-stocked purse - eye makeup, lipgloss, measuring tape, wallet, contact case and solution, business cards, pens, notebook, camera, cellphone, usb key and, up until this weekend - removed due to accidental stabbing - two forks - normally weighs more on me than that baggage.

But, unfortunately, last week was full of those heavy moments. So much so that I struggled to even put it into words. It started with me taking on too much work - because, after years of scrimping and saving and begging for freelance pieces and extra shifts, I still haven't wrapped my head around actually having a full-time job or, craziness, being able to actually say no to an assignment.

Compound that with a lot of commitments, both professionally and personally - celebrity tree decorating, anyone?, friends needing emotional support for various reasons, a lingering cold, house guests and an impending visit from my mother, and it was a recipe for a time bomb waiting to go off. Well, if time bombs put on flannel PJs, cracked a bottle of wine and a bag of chocolate chips and sobbed on their sofa while editing a profile piece.

The breaking blow, of course, came when forced to interact with my ex. After months of zero contact,  all it took was a brief - albeit frustrating and ultimately expensive - email exchange to make me feel helpless and stupid and utterly overwhelmed all over again.

I handled the issue within five minutes - I'm efficient like that - but the frustration lingered. I'd thought I was done with cleaning up those messes.

Realistically, I know that my mistakes will always be with me - they make me who I am, good and bad, quirks, neuroses and all, and most of the time that's a weight that I can bear. And when it's not, I need to find ways to remind myself of everything I have to be grateful for. Because I'd much rather focus on the dance-in-the-kitchen happy bits than the despairing ones.

It sucks ...

When you've lost sight of the light at the end of the tunnel and realize that the only person who ever knew exactly how to help you escape that dark and destructive spot in your own head is not only completely out of your life, but no longer exists.

A blast from the past ...

A knock on the door, and suddenly all notions of propriety fade away, as I race, makeup half done, hair in disarray and t-shirt hastily tossed on, my meal half-eaten on my desk, to welcome, squealing at an octave probably only dogs can hear, my guest.

My best friend from home - the photo albums of my life show us together from newborns through every major milestone, bad haircut, and bump in the road - has arrived for a visit.

While both of our lives have hit some serious snags in 2010, we can laugh hysterically at the ups and downs.

Because, when we're together we're still those three-year-olds holding hands and walking down the beach, and those 16-year-olds enjoying our first taste of freedom, picking up litres of softserve and cruising around town in our parents' cars.

Married, unmarried, divorced, dating, employed, unemployed, surviving or thriving, it doesn't matter. We're just Jen and Ty.

It's a welcome bit of home that, come Sunday, is going to leave me unbearably, unspeakably homesick. And, perhaps, speaking like a true Nova Scotian, throwing in "right" instead of very and pronouncing my 'R's just a little harsher.

Grounded

I like to think of myself as a pretty open book. Very few topics are off-limits, and, like any journalist, I love to get caught up in lines of questioning, learning and sharing details with new people. People are generally fascinating - and, I must confess, I do get a little bit of a kick out of surprising new friends, whether it's shocking them by revealing by love of hockey or my very rural roots, or sharing my high heels and short skirt lifestyle with my athletic circles.

My life is full of new, amazing people who, in some cases, never knew me as a married lady, and most of whom never knew my ex. These are the people who are surprised when they catch the sight of my childhood stuffed animal when I go to grab a bottle of wine out of my closet - not knowing that even at 25, it has made every single move, and most trips, with me throughout my life. They find it endearing. I find it rather embarrassing to admit. 

Such revelations, and explanations, sometimes make me miss those few people in my life who aren't taken by surprise by anything about me. The ones who know exactly how I will react in every situation, who know what items I will be drawn to in the shop - even anticipating my wardrobe choices - and who know, based on the nature and/or scarcity of my texts, tweets, posts and emails, to come find me and stop my hermiting habit.

These friends, while rare, are so essential when all of the rest of your world has come tumbling down around you.

They keep you grounded and make sure that you retain those parts of your past that make you who you are - because truly chucking out all those memories and possessions is not only impossible, but also ill advised. Because really, how interesting is a person with no past?

Since taking the leap to dramatically change my life and start over - losing possessions and friendships along the way - it's easy to feel disconnected. Who was that little blond girl with the pigtails, chasing after her brother on a mini motorcycle? That redhead in the hockey team jacket - her own - running around town in her parents' station wagon? That wide-eyed brunette journalism student who got lost, daily, on her first internship in Toronto? I was, and still am, all of those people, but sometimes it's easy to feel like I'm losing them.

The new people in my life get glimpses of those widely varied girls, but sometimes, I need a more solid link to my life before I moved halfway across the country and everything changed. Luckily, this week, my oldest and dearest friend is coming to visit, to remind me where I come from and that, while you can take the girl out of Nova Scotia, you can't take the Nova Scotia out of the girl.