It is a Saturday morning in Montreal and I wake up on a bed that William Lyon Mackenzie King died on a long time ago. It’s in the guest room of my friends, Jonathan and Sarah’s house, where I have been staying for a few days.  This bed has provided me with the most solid sleep I’ve had in weeks, following a stretch of time I can only describe as the most intense month of my life.

This month isn’t over yet.

Jonathan gave a brief history of this pull out couch the night I got into Montreal. He bought it at an antique store in Toronto. A historic Canadian figure died on it.Jonathan is smart and a great storyteller so I don’t question much of what he tells me, instead, choosing to revel in the fact that it’s where I will lay my head for a few nights, during this historic time in my own life.

*

I think it started here. The night I strongly connected with that handsome and compelling dream Jew boy, the one who was interested in me, but. To say it started here, with the fatal assassination of my expelled Hells Angel neighbour, in my backyard, would be too dark.

And after that, things just kept happening.

A few days after the shooting, I take off to Gabriola with hopes of clearing my head.

The first day there, I go to the beach with Dutchie, only to run into an ex-boyfriend who I haven’t talked to in six years. It is awkward but I’m relieved that he looks happy and no longer has power over me. Still, I wonder what the Universe is up to.

The next day I go back to the beach, with hopes of finally relaxing. I meet and intensely connect with a beach bum single mother with one of the most inspiring and fascinating stories I’ve ever heard. It involves Robert Pickton. When she finds out I’m a writer, we agree that I will be the one who will help her tell her story. It will be a big job but I promise I will try and do it justice.

I return to Vancouver, accepting the fact that I’m not meant to be relaxing right now. I tell myself that it’s all happening for a reason and try so hard to see the good in it all. But my head is spinning and things just keep happening.

I have a dramatic blow out with a dear friend, who screams at me that we’re done, that I’m not a good story, but a selfish one. That quote is quickly branded in my brain. I’m a selfish story.

Next, I am dropped from a wonderful event I helped start, one that I love deeply and one that I know will only flourish without me. My head is spinning and things just keep happening.

With every day that passes, the list of things that I have to question about myself just keeps getting longer.

As the week draws to a close, my best friend comes over to have a talk. He tells me I am acting different and people are concerned. At this point, my head is racing so fast, I don’t know what to say to make him or myself feel better. I tell him I’ll deal with it when I get back from the east, because really, there is no other option.

*

It is Saturday morning and I am now in a car full of distant acquaintances who I hitched a ride with to get to a wedding in North Hatley, Quebec.

Despite having a great few days in Montreal, I feel dark inside. I chose not to think about the wedding leading up to it because I knew it would only make me lose my mind, given the kind of month I’d had.

My old, dear friend Laura is getting married, and just about everyone from an awkward part of my past as a Torontonian will be there. People I’ve fallen out with. People who only knew me when I was a hyper sexualized preteen, when my brain was underdeveloped and I made poor choices. People I really, really don’t care to see.

One of the passengers in the car is a three-year-old named Violetta. We quickly become friends and spend the next two hours reading books and playing with her stuffed dog, Pudgie. When my attention is not on Violetta, it is on how depressed and hopeless I feel. I roll down the window and let the wind inside.
I look over at Violetta. She closes her eyes and grins widely as the wind hits her face.

*

There is a scene from the music mockmentary Spinal Tap that speaks to me. The band is in the back of a limo reading Sammy Davis Jr.’s autobiography. The driver notices and starts excitingly telling them a story about Frank Sinatra. Nigel, the arrogant and clueless guitar player, looks at the driver blankly and presses the button that rolls up the dividing window between the front and the back of the limo, blocking him out as he talks. This is what often happens to me when I feel uncomfortable in social situations. My window comes up, blocking out everyone around me.

This window comes up a lot at the wedding, as people from my past make a point of saying hello. But rather than smile and politely have small talk, I blatantly block them out. I hope they know it’s nothing personal but I haven’t got the effort to make that clear.

As the night progresses, my window comes down just a bit, thanks to the nicely stacked open bar. I dance with my friends and eat too many desserts. I spot a sexy blond guy on the grass outside the tent who makes a point of saying hello to me. He is Swiss with a French accent, and plays drums professionally for a popular Canadian band.

We have good rapport and I quickly open up to him. We immediately connect as artists and talk about his lifestyle as a touring musician. He laughs at me when I try to be funny, and listens compassionately when I tell him something serious. I take him through my month, through the entire thing: the shooting, the spinning, the darkness I felt on the ride up.

For the first time in a long time, I feel completely at ease, with this handsome stranger and his blazing blue eyes. He listens without judgment and connects with me sincerely and I start to feel okay again.

Later on into the morning, we walk arm in arm to a nearby forest and connect even more.

*

The day after the wedding, I climb into a rental car with my best friend Ronit and her long-term boyfriend Almog (who are technically on a break). The ride to Toronto is eight hours and we spend nearly the entire time laughing hard, singing loudly to the radio, and contemplating deep questions on the road (“Has there always been cheese on the Filet o’ Fish?”)

We stop in Brockville and eat at four different fast food restaurants, savouring each guilty, fatty snack with delightful pleasure.

Half an hour away from my parents place in Toronto, we hit our first traffic jam in our long, painless drive. Rather than get frustrated, I relax a little in my seat. Then I roll down the window, close my eyes and let the wind inside.