“The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.”
– Alan Watts
Yesterday, I decided to share all my journaling with my ex. I wasn’t feeling good—just really down, depressed, and hopeless—and I needed to reach out to someone I trust. Despite being separated and moving toward divorce, there’s no animosity between us. In fact, we’re getting along relatively well. I sent her the text to be open about where my head was at and because I had nothing to hide. More than anything, I needed to calm myself down and feel less alone. It might sound strange, but it worked. I slept better—maybe not perfectly, but better than I had in a while.
When I woke up this morning, I felt anxious. Thinking about my upcoming trip to Montreal brought back memories of when I impulsively went to Vegas for Thanksgiving. That trip was an attempt to escape—I didn’t want to spend Thanksgiving alone in my Detroit studio apartment. But running away didn’t help; I was in Vegas for less than 24 hours, still stuck with myself. Montreal feels different, though. I have roots there—family, friends, and familiarity with the area. It’s not just a short trip; I’ll be there for a week. I hope it will be an opportunity to reset and start feeling better about being with myself. My goal is to become my own friend, my own best friend, to learn to like myself and be kind to myself. Only then can I begin building true, meaningful relationships with others.
Today is my mother’s birthday, but I haven’t seen or spoken to her in over 10 years. From what my son has told me, she’s unwell, likely suffering from Alzheimer’s or dementia. This knowledge weighs heavily on me. I reached out to my younger sister, who I also haven’t spoken to in over a decade, to get more information. I feel awful about not being there, not knowing what’s been happening. And I know it’s my fault—I was the one who cut ties with everyone. I still don’t fully understand why. There wasn’t a good reason, and I’ve tried to chalk it up to not feeling well at the time.
My mother was incredibly strong. By 22, she had five kids and was fleeing an abusive relationship with my father. I remember the night she left in 1977, taking us on a train from Toronto to Montreal with only $50 to her name. She’d gotten the money from my father while he was drunk, and he bet she wouldn’t leave. He lost that bet. The train tickets cost nearly all of it, and a relative—her brother, I think—picked us up and brought us to Windsor, Quebec, a small town. That’s where I believe her depression really began. And who could blame her? She was only 23, raising five kids under extremely difficult circumstances. I don’t know how she managed, but she did the best she could.
My mother and I were never close. I think I reminded her of my father, which created a barrier between us. Strangely, I never called her “Mom” or “Mommy,” or even by her name. I simply didn’t call her anything. When I needed to speak to her, I’d just approach and start talking. It’s a sad realization—I’ve never truly felt like I had a mother. I’ve spent my life searching for mother figures in others. My godmother Jacqueline, my first mother-in-law Suzanne, and my second mother-in-law Rebecca were all women I loved deeply. They filled that role for me, and I worked hard to make those relationships meaningful.
Looking back, I wish I’d put the same effort into all my important relationships. I hope it’s not too late to change that. I need to start building connections again, nurturing relationships, and maybe then I won’t feel so emotionally alone.
