The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places

Ernest Hemingway said that. I've always liked that quote, and thought that I was strong at the broken places, but I'm discovering that I'm just broken these days. Feeling like I don't have many more hits left in me. Even the small ones now seem to take me down too easily, too hard. I'm scared by that.

Most of the time I'm able to feel the joy at the simple things in life. Actually, the only things I've ever felt joy about are the simple things. Moments. Moments where the world seemed right. But the world isn't right. I think somewhere in my heart I've always known that, and that's what is getting harder to take.

Here's the story and, if there's anyone out there who is reading this nonsense that I write, and you feel you can offer me some insight, some perspective ... or just fucking help me ... then shoot, fire, do your worst, do your best.

I grew up in a family that didn't love me. Oh yeah, I know, that sounds too sad, too ridiculous. It's true, though, and I don't know why, I've never actually known why. I've tried over the years too many times, too hard, but I've always failed. Can't seem to get it right, make it right. Was I too tall, too stupid, too insensitive, too smart, too pretty? Did I screw up too many times? Probably all of those things at various points, but isn't that when your "family" is supposed to love you? Isn't that what "family" is, the people who love you anyway? I guess not. Okay, that's the end of that story.

Then I married a man who said he loved me, but he didn't. He yelled at me, he called me names, he belittled me, eventually he started throwing things at me. Never really knew why either. Couldn't predict it, couldn't stop it, couldn't fix it. Finally ended it. Still for years took what he would give, in terms of financial support for our children, or in terms of ever being there for our children. I mean, in the course of eight years, he never took them to a doctor's appointment, rarely took them overnight. And, by "rarely", I would say a dozen times in the course of those eight years. All of this ate away at my self-esteem. I mean, I have a lot of bravado, I pretend I'm confident, but I'm not. I am self-aware. I know that I am a capable person, I know that I am a person who loves too deeply. I love my children too deeply. From the moment they came on this earth, to this day, to the end of my days, they are my soul. Maybe because I lost mine somewhere, and they gave it back. But I would die for them, I would take a bullet, I would brave the darkest night (and I'm afraid of the dark), I would fight the fiercest monster. This world would cease to exist for me without either of them. I could not live.

Okay, so finally I meet a man, a partner, a friend. And he is wonderful, no doubt. But even that was a struggle at first, a big struggle, a struggle that ate at me. In the beginning, when I thought it was just the two of us trying to build something, it turned out that that wasn't the case. I had to fight harder. It was worth it. It is now something I can count on. But do I have it in me? Sometimes I don't think I do. Times like now, I just want to be alone, I just want to be left alone. I can't take any more hurt. I know we all say that, but I am really there.

My ex-husband rears his head again. Now he wants money from me!!! He wants me to pay him for the house that we lived in, that I have lived in with our children for the past eight years, and he is going to take me to court to get it. I don't have the strength for this fight, I don't have the money for this fight. I just want to lay down and close my eyes. I'm so tired. I'm bone-tired, I'm soul-tired, I'm heart-tired. I don't have anything else to give.

And here's the thing that I've been getting to with all of this. This ex-husband, this father of my children, likes to tell them that one day they're going to find out the truth about their mother. I keep asking what that truth is. Even I don't know. But it's something I've heard from this so-called "family" of mine before. Please, please, please, tell me the truth. What is it that I am? What is it that I don't see about myself? Why do I keep feeling like I'm a bad person. I try to be good, I really do, I fight to be good. I give to charity all the time. I have a World Vision child, I'm a member of the Sick Kids Miracle Network, I give to Green Peace, and I give to the Lung Association. All because I'm a bad person? I do this every month and have for years. I truly care about every human being I come into contact with. All because I'm a bad person?

Here's why I'm scared: Because I do think I'm a bad person. I don't know why or how or what or where or when, but I believe them. I mean, I never had any training to be a good person; maybe I'm just pretending, maybe it's all an act, maybe nothing is real.

I'm sad, I'm scared, and I'm falling.

Lest we forget

Remembrance Day today! Odd that it's never really meant too much to me, because it should mean something to all of us, shouldn't it? I listened to Stuart McLean yesterday. Sometimes I'm lucky enough to be in the car when he's doing his Vinyl Cafe on CBC. What a treat! For the first time, I felt Remembrance Day, I felt the lives of all of those who have believed in something with all of their heart, fought for something and paid the ultimate price - their lives.

Mr. McLean ... yes, I'm going to call him Mr. McLean, because I have come to respect this sincere, heartfelt human being ... talked about a man named George Lawrence. George Lawrence, Mr. McLean informed, was the last Canadian soldier killed in World War II. George was 24 years old when he was conscripted into the army, and he was 25 years old when he died. He died two minutes before the Armistice was signed that day. I chose this Remembrance Day to remember George Lawrence, to remember the life he sacrificed for all of us.

We take so much for granted every single day, and most of us know that. But George Lawrence, we shouldn't take for granted. George gave up all the simple things that we enjoy. He relinquished his right to have his own family, to enjoy a homecooked meal, to feel rain on his face, to watch the first snowfall. I believe (or I certainly wish) that I will remember George Lawrence every single Remembrance Day for the rest of my time on this earth. He symbolizes something for me. In a world where every other story on the radio is tragic, sad, confusing, frightening, I want to remember the George Lawrences.

And the Stuart McLeans!!! You make a difference, Mr. McLean, in the lives of so many, I'm sure, and you certainly do make and have made a difference in mine. Thank you for that.