And I wish I had packed a warmer jacket.
I was hoping that the next time I wrote to you would be on a happier note full of new beginnings and exciting changes, but this is me we’re talking about so naturally we’ve instead been met with some sort of minor catastrophe that has me questioning everything I thought I was sure of.
As usual I’m never really sure the correct place to begin because I feel like there’s a lot to say. Whether or not it’s of interest to you is another story.
If it is, here it goes.
I’m going to start a little further back in case you’re new here and haven’t heard any of this before, but it’ll be a pretty condensed version.
I felt terrible when I moved back home with my parents in October 2020. I felt like I had failed and like my life to that point had amounted to nothing but disappointments. I felt like a burden, taking up space in a place that although familiar was not my own. I did not belong there and efforts were made to reinforce that belief. About as quickly as I’d returned, I was working on my escape. There was no way at 30 years old I could live with my parents again; Afterall, I’d been out of the house for years and was more than happy to have my independence.
Feeling the strain of it all, I moved out again just a few months later in March 2021. I ended up in a not-so-ideal neighbourhood in Barrie, Ontario and my problems quantified. I had my own space and that felt wonderful – I made it my own and was proud of the small steps I’d made toward being independent again, but my safety became threatened and the pit in my stomach that told me this place, too, was not where I should be, grew by the day. Ultimately I didn’t feel safe leaving Dakota home alone and had a few situations where I found myself wondering the quickest way out in case I needed to suddenly escape, so it was time to leave.
I packed my things and moved home – tail between my legs and all and more depressed than before.
Something had changed at the house though, and now instead of getting verbal confirmation that I was a little unwelcomed but would be tolerated, I found myself getting ignored. I’m not sure which feeling is worse, but somewhere along the way I told myself it would be better to get used to feeling invisible and just working on the things I alone can control. Always in the background, I was working on my next escape. It would take time, but I am hard working and resourceful and I would get myself my own place again one day soon – that’s what I’d tell myself and it’s what I believed.
A couple years passed and I wasn’t making much headway. Rent is expensive. Food is expensive. Employers are cheap and demanding. I wasn’t saving any money. I was exhausted. Still depressed, but I think I’d kinda hit bottom on that. What happened to my friends? Oh, nevermind them. My dog was safe. Things will progress.
My health declined. I became nervous again, seemingly all the time. I first had panic attacks as a kid and now they were back with a vengeance.
I focused on what I could. I did any job that would have me. Bad actors seemed to follow me, hell-bent on making me miserable even when I was willing and happy to clean toilets for minimum wage at my local gym. The world is full of assholes and no amount of my kindness would keep them away.
I wrote and released a few albums while this was all happening, it was the only thing that made me feel half-okay. Of course, I had no one to talk to about any of it. Even my limited presence on the internet seemed to fall away – my life determined by the algorithms to not be interesting enough to warrant space on its endless digital highway. Fine, who needs em.
Every inch towards progress to my goals was met with multiple backward steps. Every extended olive branch would disappear and leave a terrible bitter taste.
I grew to a point where I didn’t trust a single thing anyone would ever say. Everyone is full of shit in this modern age and it’s mostly pathetic to me, but hey, I’m not here to tell you how to live your life.
Still, I tried to believe in myself and what I was doing. I would make appearances at local open mics to share my songs and stories, desperate for any kind of miniscule connection. Toronto is a cold city, it didn’t matter what venue I was in or whether I was performing or working as a tech, I felt like an outcast.
I never felt that way as a teen first getting my feet wet in the music scene or even in my early 20’s navigating the recording studio world. Funny, that.
There are thousands of musicians in this city, yet I couldn’t find anyone who was really interested in meeting up with any sort of regularity to work on songs and play, even just to have some fun with it. There is so little joy left in all of it, so many barriers to entry, so much insecurity. Again, this wasn’t a problem I expected at all. I generally get along well with everybody and used to have a pretty good ability to make fast friends.
Finding band mates wasn’t in the cards and I didn’t want to force it, but I’ve been determined to try and chase my dreams, so I pressed on. Another solo album, some more acoustic open mics – yeah, it’s just me still. It’s the only thing I can offer myself and the only avenue where I feel… something.
Along the way I thought, if Toronto wasn’t interested in me, there must be some other place I can go to give myself an honest shot at a decent little life.
I always wanted to move out west and I was going to make an attempt to move out there a couple years ago – to Vancouver, B.C, but that was sabbotaged as well by my parents and family then and at the time I didn’t believe I could do it on my own; It seemed an impossible idea with the jobs I was experienced in and my limited financial access.
In the years that followed that, I’d go back and fourth about it. My dog Dakota is the only thing that is really important to me and ensuring I could take care of us both was pivotal to the plan. When I first started looking, I couldn’t find dog-friendly places to live and no employers would get back to me at all, so it seemed like it just wouldn’t happen.
After a couple years of exhausting research, things started to fall into place. I was doing well in work here in Toronto again, getting my live-events tech barrings back and feeling more confident in an industry that favours men even if they lack experience, and I felt like I could take myself far once I got a job offer. It didn’t even have to be in events tech, I’ve worked in all sorts of industries and I was willing to do whatever it took.
I started to find all sorts of dog-friendly places Dakota and I could live. He’s lived in lots of different places with me already so I thought he would adapt easily. As long as we were together, it would all work out, I was sure.
I started believing the universe was sending my quirky little signs that approved of my choice. To be sure, I went out to Vancouver to make sure I wasn’t going into it all blind.
I tried to do it all correctly. I didn’t rush. I thought it through.
I worked my ass off all summer to give myself a financial cushion that would take me at least a couple months to give it a real shot. There was always the possibility that it might not work out and I knew that, but I was willing to take the risk and this seemed like the right time to do it.
My parents hated the kind of hours I was pulling. There were whispers behind closed doors all the time, “you need to talk to her, she can’t be working like this.” Even when I’m doing well, I’m something of a disappointment.
It furthered my feelings that I needed to leave. I can’t live with people that make me feel so terrible all the time. I am not a burden.
It’s almost insane to me that I even feel that way. It’s not like I am some sort of trouble maker – I am still 5+ years sober; my hobbies are trail running and writing music; I have no friends now for reasons I may never understand (they all disappeared without saying much to me and I imagine are living fun, happy fulfilled lives) so lord knows I’m always home and not getting into any weird habits; when I’m not at work, I might go to the odd concert or comedy show or sit at home and play Nintendo Switch. By all accounts, I’m fucking boring.
I have never been enough for my family. For some reason, they have a very hard time showing love. Always have. I pay the price for that with emotional irregularity and attempt to cope with blogs like this and poorly mixed rock records I still produce in my childhood bedroom.
When I went to Vancouver, for the first time in a long time I felt truly happy. The air is somehow fresher, the scenary is an absolute dream and the people by and large seem happier and more willing to chat with strangers. Not like Toronto where everyone is in a hurry to go nowhere and can’t be assed to look at you sideways.
A truly beautiful city. I could definitely see myself being happy living there. It was expensive, but no more so than Toronto, really, so that didn’t feel like a problem. Dakota would love it, I was sure – all sorts of new trees to smell and trails to wander.
So, it was a go. I was going to try and do this and it should happen this year because winter was fast approaching and I didn’t want to spend another 6 months indoors with my festering depression.
I secured a place for us to live – dog friendly in a neighbourhood that seemed like a better fit for a girl and her dog. I went ahead and started firing off resumes and even heard back from places who were willing to interview me and meet with me once I got to Vancouver. Things were looking great!
I broke the news to my family and was surprised that unlike last time I spoke with them about my plans, I wasn’t met with all the ways this would go wrong. They were being supportive and that felt weird, but I was happy not to have to fight about it all.
In the weeks leading up to my departure, everyone I worked with in Toronto seemed to be nicer to me. That was weird, too. The connections I had been hoping and trying to build for years were now coming to me, but just in time for me to let them all know I was leaving.
That’s typical, isn’t it?
I maintained that I was making the right choice for Dakota and I.
I left in October. I filled my car with all I could that I felt was most important for the first few months: clothes, shoes, my record player and records, an acoustic guitar and my bass, my laptop, Apollo duo, a couple microphones and my 9-year old Bernese mountan dog. Goodbye’s were quick.
I thought the long drives would be tough, but they were so easy. Dakota took to the car just fine and we’d stop at little landmarks or to have lunch somewhere nice. The weather was great most days with the exception of the morning I left Winnipeg to flooded streets and heavy winds. That was a scary drive out of the city – the flat wheat fields that followed for miles were such a welcomed change.
As optimistic as I was trying to be, there were a lot of moments where I felt the pull back home.
On my first night in a very cute cabin in Betchawana Bay just outside of Sault Ste. Marie, my mom told me how bad my dad was taking it. “He hasn’t been this upset since his mother died. He thinks he has lost you forever.”
I saw it all over his face when I video called him that night. As I said, my family is very very bad at showing love, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there at all. My dad and I were quite close when I was younger and I know that he cares a lot about me and Dakota.
I told him it’d be okay and he’d be excited to visit Vancouver once I got settled – he’s never been and I’m sure he’d love it, too. There are few things harder than seeing your father cry and knowing you’re the one that caused it.
I was still sure I had made the right choice, but I cried every day I drove a little further away and found myself trying to remind myself why I was doing this. It can be so easy to get all turned around when you’re doing something that feels so important.
In Moose Jaw Dakota & I had our first real scare. The place we were staying in was a real shit hole – it reminded me of my old King City rental home I shared with my ex. The home we chose to rent to give Dakota the backyard I thought he deserved as before then, we were in an apartment. It was falling apart with broken windows and shitty floors with just enough work done to it to make it rentable and not a single penny more. I have a tendency to look at places like this for what they could be instead of what they are. With the King City palce, I knew it kinda sucked but it had a lot of potential; I thought we could spruce it up a bit, or at least then save some money to get into a real proper home after a bit of time (it was cheaper than our 2-bedroom Davisville apartment whose property management kept finding reasons to increase our rent).
I had just gotten out of the gross shower (the curtains were dirty and the pipes visibly rusted, ew) when I noticed some men standing at the front door. One of them walked up the steps and seemed to peer into the little box the keys were left for me by the host. They didn’t knock and I did my best to ensure I wasn’t seen – a tricky task as much of the front of the house was windows. I got changed quickly and felt uneasy as they paced around the front of the house. One disappeared and I was sure I heard the back door handle jiggle. My heart raced and my mind went to the butcher knife I had found in a random cupboard earlier. Was I going to have to fight these people off? I would do anything to protect Dakota and I.
I wasn’t sure what to do. While my imagination went to all the worst places, more men showed up on the street. Someone again paced up the steps to the front door – this happened a couple times. I was in a sort of industrial/business area of downtown Moose Jaw where one side of the street was residential and the other side was automative shops. It didn’t exactly feel like the best part of town, but I try not to get ahead of myself most of the time. Nonetheless, it didn’t make sense why these people were here or why they kept walking up the 3 steps to the small landing where my front door was. I felt exposed and afraid of their intentions.
Eventually I decided the least I could do was message the hosts and ask them if there was any reason these people might be here – some sort of miscommunication, maybe, who knows. They got back reasonably quickly and didn’t have an explanation but tried to assure me the neighbourhood was safe. They had friends in the area and didn’t think I’d have a proble, but this doesn’t exactly make you feel better when you’re speaking to a stranger over text in an unfamiliar town.
At some point during this correspondence, the men outside lowered the back piece of their pick-up truck and had spilled documents all over the back of it. Legal documents, presumably, as a few of them took turns signing them.
Some time later they all packed up their things, got back in their cars and left. And I was mildly bewildered that of all the places in the city of Moose Jaw they could have chosen to do this, it had to happen right outside this shitty little house I was staying in for the night.
False alarm, although it didn’t really explain why they kept walking up the stairs or that jiggling at the back door earlier.
Dakota and I went to bed to try and rest as much as we could and I looked forward to better accomodations further west knowing that this was the only one I had cheaped out on.
As the days passed I was getting more and more exhausted. Not really from driving – again, that was the easy part – but from everything else. I was starting to obsessively think about getting back to work and hoping I landed a job quickly since I knew I was on a financial crunch to begin with. I was tired of stopping for coffees, food or gas and tired of checking into different suites every night and reading the hosts instructions and leaving reviews after improper sleeps. For the most part, the places were pretty decent, so I can’t even really complain about that, but nothing beats your own bed and your own shower.
We pressed on and I felt amazing once the mountains came into view. We were almost at our new home and I couldn’t be more excited about all the new – new everything! New parks, new trails, new coffee shops, new venues, new open mics, new, new new.
I proceeded with as much optimism as I could muster.
When we finally got to Vancouver, I breathed a sigh of relief. We’d done it. We’d driven all the way from Toronto, Ontario to Vancouver, B.C. Unscathed, other than the bruise and cut on my face from the day I accidentally opened the car door into my own face while getting Dakota out of the back seat.
The feelings I felt when I first visited came right back. Vancouver just feels great, it’s unlike any city I’ve ever visited that way. I don’t know how to describe it other than it just felt right. Like I’d actually made a good choice for once.
And then we pulled into our new apartment building, a 3-story building in Kitsilano, and I realized the instructions on which parking space to use were a little unclear. So I parked in the visitors slot and messaged the property managers I was renting from for clarification, even sending a photo upon their request which seemed odd (surely they know what number I should be in?) and they said it was fine, so we left the car and went in.
The keys weren’t where they said they’d be, but they were easy enough to find on the kitchen table.
We took a quick look around and… it wasn’t exactly like we thought it would be. In a word, it was filthy. The unit didn’t look like it had been well maintained at all, the couch was awfully hard and uncomfortable, nevermind full of stains they tried to strategically cover with blankets and pillows. The bed seemed fine enough, but the more I looked the more problems I noticed. The dish towels we also all stained, horribly, and I couldn’t trust that anything was truly clean. The rug was a mess. There was left over food in the cupboards that grossed me out perhaps more than it should have, and the mens shampoo and conditioner in the bathroom told me this is primarily a mens bachelor pad and that seemed to make sense for the state of it. (No offense, but I did grow up with 2 brothers.)
It had been raining a bit and there was water pooled in the bedroom and a lot of water damage on the walls in the living room.
And as it got a little darker I realized there was not even a light for the living room which had the most square footage of the entire apartment. Weird oversight by everyone involved, really.
But I am an easy-going person and I was tired after a long trip across the country. These things could be managed on some level. I could get new dish towels, dispose of the food, move a lamp from the bedroom to the living room…
I tried not to think too deeply about it and left Dakota safely inside while I ran out to the car 3 times to bring the most important things inside.
He wailed while I was gone.
On my final trip in, not 30 minutes after we had arrived, I had a note on my door about the noise from a neighbour.
Are you fucking kidding me?
There were all sorts of dogs in this building – I know because they’d bark as I walked past their doors. It was something like 2:30 in the afternoon while I quickly grabbed stuff from the car, it wasn’t like it was midnight or something. I couldn’t believe we already had a complaint.
Yes, actually, I could.
When I first brought Dakota home the same damn thing happened. In our first day leaving him alone to train him that we’d be away sometimes, he cried. A day later we had a note on our door from our building – someone had complained to them and embellished it to boot, saying he’d been crying all day and night which just wasn’t possible since we were there with him.
Dakota has always been very good and quick to learn these things, but for the rest of the day I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.
I’d take Dakota out often for walks around the neighbourhood and in those moments I felt good again. Everyone on the streets were friendly and welcoming and I loved being back at Kits beach. As we walked outside, I’d be sure we would be happy here and things would work out. And then the moment we’d walk back into that apartment building, my entire body seemed to reject Vancouver.
I started having panic attacks again, but they were intense. I couldn’t get myself under control and I just felt like I’d made the most horrible mistake. Dakota was restless and he seemed unhappy. In most of our short-term stays leading out here, he’d be a little confused but able to settle in. Here, he didn’t seem so willing to settle in. I tried a few times to leave him on his own and train him to get used to me being gone a little while, but I think having lived in a home where there was always someone around for the last couple years changed him more than I realized it had. He’d always had some separation anxiety with me, but he was much worse now.
And I thought about how important it was that above all else, Dakota be happy. He’s 9 which is getting up there for a Bernese and although he’s got a great youthful spirit, I know our remaining time is limited.
Was I really going to leave my dog alone for hours of the day once I get a new job? Was that really fair to him at this age?
He’s the only real support I’ve had and I can’t stress enough how much this whole experience reinforced that and ultimately broke me.
Vancouver was beautiful, I loved it here and I knew Dakota would be happy anywhere with me, but in order for all of this to work, I’d have to leave him alone in this kinda shitty apartment and that felt wrong.
As I mulled this over each day, the rejection letters started coming in. Those interviews I had that seemed to promosing fell through. I got another letter from the building manager about people complaining about Dakota cryingduring the day I went to the local grocery store for half an hour. People I’d met in the building were downright weird or rude. All of the happy people seemed to be outside. And I hadn’t even touched my guitar since I left. I felt so uninspired and not at all interested in creating music in this space. It wasn’t really well laid out for me too even put my laptop and mics anywhere that made sense for the way I like to work. That, I realized, was the other most important part of this whole thing. Dakota and music, that’s all I have now.
I felt trapped. I had fucked up. This was a mistake. Dakota deserved better. I deserve better than this gross stained apartment.
I phoned my parents one morning from the beach. It was early for me, not for them. I didn’t have any faith left that I could do this or that it was right or fair. I wanted to go home even though I wasn’t sure they wanted me to be there and I knew all the reasons I had for leaving in the first place were valid and would return if I did. There was no good solution in this for me, so I focused on what mattered more than I did – Dakota.
Dad hated that I’d left so he was all for it. Mom didn’t put up any sort of fight about it, but thought I should maybe take more time to see if things got better. I was too tired to think straight and didn’t want my life to continue to be such a fight – what’s the point?
I know these probably seem like petty complaints in the grand scheme of things – other people certianly have it worse, but that’s not a great way to measure your own quality of life.
I can’t express how bad it felt everytime I sat in that living room, like my entire soul was just… gone. I had zero desire to do anything at all. I could barely fathom making a tea, nevermind eating a proper meal. And when I wasn’t fretting about what I should be doing instead or trying to convince myself I was overreacting, I’d just sit there and bawl my eyes out.
I went out to my car one afternoon to find another note claiming I was illegally parked and due to be towed. If the universe was truly giving me signs, all these ones were telling me to get the fuck up and go.
I don’t fancy myself a quitter, but this time I did. And maybe that decision was a little rushed, I’m still not sure, but it really just felt like something wasn’t right.
I did not feel like I belonged here, either. Maybe I don’t really belong anywhere right now? Maybe that’s okay.
I could use this as an opportunity to disappear.
I really thought that.
As I packed by things back into the car, I thought this could be a great opportunity to start over in a new way. Most people know I’ve moved to B.C, so I could just let them continue to believe that’s where I am and never mention this to anyone. Get off of social media, I hate the shit half the time anyway, and just disappear as much as possible in plain sight back in my hometown.
Yeah, that’s what I’ll do.
I’ll go home, I’ll take some time, get a new job, stop posting on social media and just cease to exist outside of my own tiny bubble and spend as much time as possible with my dog.
Maybe that’s best for all of us. There’s just not really a place for me right now and that’s okay.
And so I dropped the keys back on the kitchen table and left Vancouver.
Disappointed, rejected, exhausted.
I filled up my gas tank and thought it might really be wise to get a hybrid next time like I really wanted. I had to stop compromising so much. Everytime I compromise and try to just go with the flow, everything turns to shit. No more compromising.
It’s time to restart and disappear.
As I got on the highway this time heading East, I thought, “Drove all the way to Vancouver just to turn around and drive right home. Kinda funny. It might be funny to be like, ”oops, brb Vancouver, forgot something at home.”
And I laughed for the first time all week.
Couldn’t help myself – posted the thought to my Threads page. I thought it far too funny to keep to myself even if no one else really understood the joke.
Besides, who am I kidding, I’m too honest of a person to just disappear off the Earth like that. I would crack the moment a single person asks me how it’s going in B.C. Might as well have a laugh about it.
You’re a failure and it’s okay.
The drive home was long.
While I had great weather on the drive over, on the way back I hit every season. I drove through a snowstorm all day from Calgary to Regina. I did not stay in Moose Jaw.
I was so fucking cold.
I felt dumb.
I questioned my decision every moment that I wasn’t looking directly at Dakota’s sweet face, so I tried to look at him often. He slept better in the car with his head on the center console than he did in the Vancouver apartment.
Dad called every day to see how it was going – multiple times a day. I didn’t have much to say.
It was wonderful crossing the border back in Ontario, but when I returned to Thunder Bay I had another situation. Unlike Moose Jaw, it was the most expensive place I had to pay for on the journey home, largely due to a lack of options. The suite itself looked fine enough – it was a well renovated apartment above a hair salon. Unlike Moose Jaw where I shuddered as I opened the door, it felt comfortable as soon as we arrived.
It was still daylight so I went to open the living room curtains to let some natural light in – the fixtures were obnoxiously placed and kind of hurt my eyes after the drive, so it seemed a better idea – plus, despite my hermit-like tendencies, I hate feeling like a total shut in.
When I opened the curtains, I noticed a man walking the sidewalk just below us passing by our front door. He looked up immediately.
If you’ve ever looked into somebodies eyes and gotten that dreadful feeling that something was wrong and there seemed to be nothing beyond those pupils, you know exactly how that felt for me. My gut told me there was a problem and I moved from the window, pulling up my phone to try to play it off like I hadn’t seen him at all.
Sure enough, moments later there was loud banging at my door. Rushed, anxious, almost angry banging.
Now, I had also ordered a pizza a little earlier, so although it startled me, I first made sure to pull up the app to see if it was just a funny coincidence and this was my pizza delivery.
Nope, the driver was still 2 minutes away and I’d requested he text or call me when he arrives.
Another moment passes and there is further banging on the door. Or was it the side of the building? It was weirdly muffled. The salon below me was closed so I knew it wasn’t them.
I start pacing, annoyed that I’m having another problem when I just needed to get through a couple more nights.
I’m tired and irritated when my phone dings. It’s the pizza delivery driver – he’s outside now.
I open the door as he’s still walking from his car to me and quickly scan the street. The man I spotted from the window has disappeared and I’m relieved. Saved by the pizza guy, phew.
Perhaps it was nothing to be concerned about at all.
I go inside and put on some Netflix and sit down to my pizza. I’m still anxious so I eat quickly before I hop in the shower to get cleaned up before I call it an early night and go to bed.
Still in a towel, there it is again. Three hurried bangs on the door.
Fuck, he’s back.
He bangs the door again.
Why does this keep happening when I just get out of the shower and I feel even more vulnerable?
I change quickly.
I panic wondering if I locked the door after the pizza guy came (I did).
I start pacing again. I turn off the lights so he can’t see me. I don’t want him to know I’m here alone with my dog, but for some reason I feel like he already knows that.
Looking through the kitchen window I can see the man, same red shirt, walking down the street.
Yep, it’s him, but it looks like he might be leaving.
I check the time and it’s been a couple hours since he first banged on the door, what the fuck is he doing back here?
It carries on for a while. I call my sister thousands of miles away and explain the situation in hushed whispers. It’s not really comforting, she has no idea where I am, but it gives me someone to voice my concerns to that can actually speak words back to me.
Dakota barks a little and I ask him to stay quiet, feeling it’s better we pretend we’re not really here. Maybe disappearing won’t be so bad after all.
The banging continues and is loud enough my sister can hear it through the phone, so just like back in Moose Jaw, I decide to message the hosts of the suite.
They get back reasonably quickly and explain they’re 45 minutes outside of town. Shit.
The woman says they’ve never heard of this happening, but she’ll send her husband to check out the area.
I don’t know why, but I found this odd, too. On the one hand maybe I’m just too cynical to believe good people like this still exist in the world, on the other I can’t fathom them actually driving 45 minutes into town just to take a look around.
Over the course of about 20 minutes texting back and fourth, I tell her I think the guy has left again as I haven’t heard the banging in a while and I’m not sure it’s worth the trip for her husband to come in, but I appreciate the thought.
She insists and tells me he’s already on his way and I get the sense that in fact maybe this has happened before or at least it’s not entirely unexpected. In any case, I can’t seem to sway her and she tries to be more reassuring, explaining the locks were just changed today and maybe they were trying to visit the previous tenant who left a day early.
This tickles me, too. Wonder why they left a day early? Wouldn’t this alleged friend know that? Maybe they left a day early because of his harrassment.
My mind goes everywhere in these situations.
I decide to try to get into bed since I already have all the lights off and don’t want anyone to think I’m suddenly home again. Sure enough, a while later I can hear some noises below me and beside me. My phone pings and it’s the woman explaining her husband has arrived and is checking out the suite next door and around the building. She also explains that he’ll leave a note on the door so that no one disturbs me for the rest of the night.
The whole thing felt fucking odd. I thanked her anyway and waited for all the noises to settle down before trying to catch some sleep.
The next morning, I laughed a little at the note written on cardboard taped to my door. I don’t know why but the writing struck me as weirdly threatening. “The previous tenant has left! Do not knock!”
I don’t know what the fuck all that was about, but I was happy to be leaving Thunder Bay for the sunny blue skies of Sault Ste. Marie again. All I wanted at this point of the trip was a good night’s sleep – it seemed impossible every step of the way.
By now, Dakota & I have found our way home. He was happy to see my dad and happy to be back in his luxurious backyard. Meanwhile, I’m looking around wondering if there is anything I can do differently this time to feel like there is space for me in this house again.
My bedroom once again full of boxes and bags, half-unpacked and half-yearning to leave again.
I know I should not complain about these circumstances. It’s not ideal – this house simply doesn’t have the kind of warm fuzzy supportive feeling that I have alwasy wished it did. My room, although technically mine, has never felt like my own space. I already feel the tightness in my throat and those haunting reminders that just over a week ago I was exactly where I wanted to go, but instead I’m here again and will have to try to start over.
There are some silver linings in this short-lived adventure.
I now know that if I manage to secure myself a tour across Canada, I will have no problem with the drive. I have always wanted to do this kind of thing, I just thought when I did it would be with a band playing shows. Hopefully one day.
I feel better knowing Dakota has his yard back and his own bed – I’m sure he missed it.
I know I can create music here without neighbours complaining and I no longer carry the fear of my gear being ransacked from my car.
And it’s not lost on me that despite all the challenges that come with being here, after an exhausting journey to and from B.C, I have a warm safe place to sleep again. I know not everyone who is also struggling to find their way in this world is quite so lucky tonight, but I hope things turn around for them, too.
On my way back I stayed in the same place in Winnipeg that I had chosen for the drive out. It’s nothing super special, a basement suite in a 3-story building near the Park Theatre. There in this newly familiar space, my nerves calmed enough that I finally had the energy to pull out my guitar again and I wrote this song about the trip:
I had been working on an album before leaving, but I knew I needed to write more for it before I really buckled in to recording anything. This song will be on that record, I’m sure. I know you can’t hear it that well in the video, especially with Schitt’s Creek playing in the background – the comic relief every wandering Canadian needs.
Here are the lyrics as they currently stand:
I can’t keep chasing you
Seven ways across the sun
The air so stiff it barricades my lungs
The outward reach only further boils my blood
I love you more than my heart can hold, but I know that’s not enough
I’m falling down
I’m looking back
I’m giving up
I’m a wreck
I love you more than I thought I could but I know that’s not enough
From a basement suite in Winnipeg
Somewhere off Osbourne or Jubilee
West of the riverbank I promised
Not to return and not to seek
For it seems my great desire
To give another what I so badly need
Is no way to fill the gaping holes
Left from my former homes
I’m falling down
I’m looking back
I’m giving up
I’m a wreck
I wanted more
I got less
I’m giving up
I’m a mess
I love you more than I thought I could and there must be something to that
But tonight it’s cold
And it’s not enough
I’m turning back
I don’t really know what the future holds for me and at this point I’m not too keen on forcing myself any which direction – it hasn’t ever worked out the way I’ve dreamed up in my head and I don’t really have the energy to bicker back and fourth with myself about it all anymore. But I am going to keep writing songs, recording them and releasing them, despite the fragility of my digital reach. I hope they eventually reach people who feel like me; super lost, a little hurt and lacking in love, but mildly optimistic that we can turn things around again somehow because that’s kind of all I’ve got these days.
If you made it this far, thanks for reading. I’ll be in touch soon.
Til then, I hope you find somewhere safe to sleep.
Neither Could Dylan 
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