lienne: A fountain pen nib, lying on paper. (Default)
Okay, so let me make something clear.

I love Toronto.

I love our ridiculous architecture. I love our giant penis with its accompanying lone testicle (it's called the Skydome, guys, Rogers Centre my ass). I love our land made of garbage.

I love the U of T campus. I love Queen's Park. I love the ROM, even with its giant spiky tumor. I love the Science Centre.

I love Yonge Street. I love Spadina. I love the Danforth. I love the hour-long walk from Bloor to Eglinton. I love all the movies that film here and try to pretend it is New York. I love the TV shows that film here and don't.

And the assholes who decided to host the G20 in the fucking downtown core, and the assholes who decided to pass secret laws denying us the rights we expect—the assholes who decided to let cop cars burn while they were busy harassing and assaulting peaceful protesters, the assholes who decided to beat up journalists, the assholes who decided to arrest more people than have ever been arrested en masse in the history of the country and then treat them all like shit: as far as I'm concerned these people have just walked up to the city I love and punched it in the face.
lienne: A fountain pen nib, lying on paper. (Default)
So a while ago [livejournal.com profile] innerbrat talked about how her brain works from the inside. I found it incredibly interesting. I'm going to try to do the same thing, except in my case it'll be a lot less organized and the metaphors won't be so all-encompassing; I tend to come up with nonce metaphors which-- well, you'll find out if you read the post, won't you?

A lot of this is explaining my depression, and is therefore somewhat depressing in itself.

Et voila. )
lienne: A fountain pen nib, lying on paper. (Default)
I was reading this(direct link to PDF), and what struck me was not how foreign the idea of counting out your day's energy was, but how familiar. From the instant the connection of spoon count to energy level became apparent, I knew exactly what the writer was talking about. Not firsthand, but a very close second. You might call it first-and-a-half.

See, my mom had juvenile diabetes. And I've come to realize that I take a lot of things for granted about myself that are effects of living with somebody who has that kind of illness, or of living with a type one diabetic specifically.

I'll take these in the order they occur to me.

I never lose things... )

There's probably more. The point of this stuff is that you don't think about it until something forces you to. I'm sure there are tons of attitudes floating around my brain shaped by growing up with Mum that I still haven't found yet because they're too subtle for me to realize where they come from. There was an entire second side to her illness-- gastroparesis-- that severely limited her diet because her digestion was mostly shot and she couldn't handle fibre in large quantities. The only effect this had on me that I can think of right now is that I recognize certain pills on sight. And yes, they're a very unfortunate shade of brown, and yes, the "poop pill" jokes flew.

I guess there wasn't much point to this entry, other than to say: yes, it is possible for a healthy person to understand what it's like to live with an invisible illness. I just don't recommend it.
lienne: A fountain pen nib, lying on paper. (Default)
Even after two years, it's strange to remember that I know people who never met my mother.

It's even stranger, somehow, to remember I know people who didn't go to her funeral.

To give you an idea... )

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