HELLO | It is sincerely disturbing to be typing here, directly witnessing exactly how long it’s been since I updated this site. A lot has changed since my last post (which was evidently like, five whole years ago).

I fell off the post-wagon so hard. I didn’t even do my usual birthday/site-anniversary stories. I … never even posted about The Potato Diaries (IYKYK). How is this possible?

Moving back to Canada (in 2022) after six years in Durham, NC was hard. I’m actually not sure I will ever be able to articulate how hard it was, or that you would believe me if I could. It was strangely hard, surprisingly hard, unbelievably hard, breathtakingly hard.

So many things went wrong. The drive was 13 hours long, just to get us to Ontario, then 18 more to get us to New Brunswick. And I did it alone, while still trying to work (I had so many deadlines that summer), because my husbutt still can’t drive. (He remains my husband, and a butt in equal measure.)

And then? After the drives, it just got worse.

The movers (Allied Van Lines, real winners) not showing up with our stuff until three weeks after we arrived, then booking just two grumpy, middle-aged, not-physically-well men to unload 13K lbs of stuff from the enormous truck, THEN thousands of dollars worth of said stuff coming off said truck broken or not coming off at all because whoops, it was missing, was the beginning of a pretty dark time for me.

They lost like 15 boxes and a whole bed. How does this happen?

After the practical horrors of planning the move before it even happened – doing all the packing, the measuring, all the paperwork, all the repairs, all the cleaning, the banking, the selling of the house, the buying of the house, all the all of the everything plus then some – having it all go so wrong was too much. I couldn’t process that I had lost $30K+ (a terrifying number) to “professional movers” who destroyed my belongings and my livelihood (ruining and losing not only irreplaceable sentimental items, but valuable vintage items from my shop). I was at my limit. And then there was the subsequent insurance battle with the lovely and honest individuals at Sirva (shoutout to you, claims analyst Heather Jenks, you sweetheart). It was so awful, I literally ended up with C-PTSD. And like, sorry, I know everybody’s ‘just doing their job,’ but …

Some jobs are disgusting. And so are some people.

That whole step too far thing had far-reaching consequences. I went way downhill health-wise. It felt like a direct result of the stress. My Graves disease flared. I kept getting sick, even managing a pneumonia that landed me in hospital. (Yay, we are back in the land of universal healthcare, except in New Brunswick, the system is being deliberately underfunded to try to trick the public into thinking it doesn’t work, and most of us can’t even find a doctor. We’ve been on the waiting list for three and a half years. Literally. So not so yay.)

Covid finally got me, though I have been lucky about not getting it again since, and do not appear to have any long-term related issues.

I fell and hurt my back and couldn’t/can’t get the MRI I’m told I need. It still hurts generally, and regularly takes me right out (sometimes can’t walk as far as the bathroom) more than a year later.

On one hand, life sucks, but on the other…

In 2022, I was glad to be “home”. In a new place, sure, but home. Coming back to Canada brought incredible relief. I embodied so many clichés in those first days back here. A weight was lifted. My shoulders felt lighter. I released the breath I didn’t know I was holding. (This is a joke about commercial fiction writing, by the way.) Blah blah blah.

Moving to the United States, to the American South, specifically in the summer of 2016, with a baby in tow, no work visa, no prospects, and no friends, was insane enough. And that was well before November. I didn’t think there was a chance in hell things would go the way they did. Live and learn, right? It’s hard to believe that was ten years ago. It still feels visceral – that terrifying, confusing morning.

So returning to Canada, imperfect as it is, brought relief, but I wasn’t able to enjoy it because it was a relief that coincided with me hitting this burnout. I see that now.

I fell down a well. And I didn’t really come out of it for three whole years. I’m actually still climbing out now. Am about 3/4ths of the way up the oubliette wall.

It’s a process. Two steps forward, one step back. One good sentence, one shitty cliché.

Reacclimatizing to Canada has also been confusing. Like I’d forgotten what it was like to be out at night, but not actively scared. Living in the United States taught me to assume gunshots, not fireworks. And I haven’t been able to shake that hyper-vigilance, but … it’s been three years since my kid last picked up a shell casing from the side of the road, or plucked one from the playground sand. She’s forgotten what they look like.

At the same time, I loved living in the USA. It was insane, sure, but I loved the friends I made, the business I built, the house I transformed. I loved little things, like having so many retail and food and thrift options, not having to shovel snow, air conditioning. I loved people smiling at me automatically, instead of frowning. Being less judged for my perfectly-average and normal body. And being in spaces where I was in the majority for once. Durham, specifically, was a great place to live in a million ways.

It also had plenty of flaws, large and small. I don’t miss giant cockroaches and venomous snakes. I hated (and hate) the orange monster and all his varied minions and puppeteers. I’m glad I don’t have to deal with so many scary dogs both trained to attack and yet regularly allowed to escape their yards. And I obviously don’t miss the giant men carrying giant guns in places that require zero guns, like the grocery store where I am trying to shop with my toddler. I don’t miss the aggressive, bald-faced racism. And yet, faced once-again with the covert and passive-aggressive racism of Canada, I’m not sure either is objectively better. Racism is very potato-potato that way.

Up and down, back and forth, on one hand, but on the other. Everything is like this.

Friends always help. Hi Artis! Hi Jenna! Hi Jennifer! Hi DJM crew! I love you all! I miss ya lots!

Living in the United States showed me how misrepresented most Americans are, how smart and friendly, how funny and kind. I judged them unfairly before I really knew that and I’m glad I know better now.

I haven’t enjoyed the same luck with friends since coming here, mostly since I have met so few people. Largely my own fault. I’ve been a hermit. It’s the burnout.

Even if I had arrived at my happiest and most-well-adjusted, Fredericton is a difficult place to pierce. It feels a lot like 1992. There’s a living mall. A low-key conservatism. Teenage goths. It’s hard to meet people, harder still to make friends.

But! (Everything is like this.) My kid gets to go to a cute little school with no metal detectors and no cops on the premises, and a bunch of other kids from her class live on our street and they all play outside in a wild and happy clump almost every evening. So maybe who cares if I have friends here? (Oops. I care, it turns out.) Every. Damn. Thing. Is. Like. This.

Imagine two hands: on one … but then on the other.

We’re 3.75 years in and I meant it when I changed my bio to say I plan to stay in Fredericton for the rest of my life. I do! And not only because I was traumatized by the last move, This post may make it sound otherwise, but I like it here. It’s been good for the kid. I’ve slowly been meeting people who are cool. (More slowly than I hoped, but it’s happening.) It’s nice.

And since I am finally clawing my way out of the dark, I’m also starting to do things again – to be less hermitty.

With that in mind, I’ve come to the reason for this post’s existence: I will be performing a story at the Charlotte Street Arts Centre this Saturday (April 4th). The show is a fundraiser for Habitat for Humanity NB and the CSAC, which is also a not-for-profit. Tix are $25. It’s Easter weekend, so it might be a bit tricky to get folks to come out, but I’m telling everyone far and wide. I posted on my IG a few days ago even offering to give away two free tickets myself, but I’ve had a devil of a time getting the post seen.

(Another downside of the move – my social media views have tanked. But what’s the other-hand-upside? I got to meet Jacqui from The Periwinkle House. She lives right here in Freddy, which has been such a funny coincidence. It’s NOT a large place!) She’s cool and will also be telling a story at this event.

So come one, come all. I’ll be the last storyteller of the night, following about six others, and since a few of you have expressed concern that the stories might be sad, I’m planning to tell an upbeat one so you can count on not going out too bummed. There’ll be ups, there’ll be downs. Everything is like this. But I promise an up for the end.

Okay. Wow. This is the post I have apparently chosen to return with after my long hiatus? Really? Whelp.

Talk soon. (Maybe? No promises.)