Whether we like it or not, we are going to have times where we simply feel unhappy.
So much happened in you: Your walls were climbed and stripped from too many art pieces. Your tiled floors seemed to be permanently covered with dried spinach and kale. Your rooftop was littered with make-outs. Your freezer once housed gluten-free, vegan pineapple ice cream, which, I can now admit, was a low point in the year and a half’s adventures.
True, I no longer have a connection with the Sarah Ms or Heather Bs of grade school, but our kinship had that girlish intimacy rarely found in grown-up alliances — an unadulterated devotion.
I moved from my sleepy hometown in Nova Scotia to Montreal the day after I graduated and I never looked back.
When did we start taking pride in our inability to take care of ourselves?
I decided my mother was dead. She was living and breathing and still wreaking havoc wherever she stepped, but to me, she was dead. For weeks, I mourned the loss of the mother I never had.