Monthly Archives: October 2017

and us remains impossible

One of my favourite hobbies is Moping About Vancouver.  This is partially an Early Twenties Nostalgia thing, because who doesn’t look back on their early twenties and see it in candy coloured light and want to soundtrack it and idealize it and frame that time up in Lucite as The Best Time Ever?  (High school, for the record, is somehow always the worst, even for people who didn’t seem to hate it at the time).

My moping over Vancouver is not entirely nostalgia though.  Vancouver really is a fairy tale city.  It’s unbelievably beautiful, set in a break in the mountains on the edge of the ocean.  I mean, look at the photos on the tourism website! It’s a city of glass that looks like a science fiction city on the edge of the natural world.  Yet it still has miles and miles of old neighbourhoods with only Craftsman houses to be seen.  The sky is laced with fir trees in winter and cherry blossoms in spring, so many of the latter that the blossoms pile up in drifts in the gutters in March.  I don’t know how so many movies have managed to disguise the city (hint: USAToday boxes).  And in the time I lived in southwest British Columbia, Vancouver still had the counterculture allure of the West Coast cities, all of the hippie culture my mother’s generation brought with them – now a parody of itself from Lululemon on down, but still very much in earnest in 2003.

Now, I’m realizing, Vancouver was a fairy tale city.  Article after article shows up in my feed about how people my age are leaving the city.  And over and over I hear the same line: that people are breaking up with Vancouver.  That they’re leaving it the same way they would a lover.  That it’s the end of a relationship.   I hear this as a Matt Good track off, well, “Vancouver”.  I know you, so you know me…but us remains impossible.

(I especially appreciate how nostalgic people are for early aughts Vancouver as a time before the housing crisis got ridiculous.  It was certainly trending towards ridiculous in my West Side world, although I could likely have slipped over the border of Main Street and had a very different experience)

A few weeks ago, I was comparing travel notes with another mom from Ben’s class. I’d taken Ben to Switzerland to visit a friend from Vancouver; she’d taken her family to Vancouver to visit a friend she knew from Brooklyn.  She was raving about the city, how beautiful it was, how great the food was, how much she had enjoyed it, without realizing that I was from British Columbia.  When I mentioned that I had been in Basel for the wedding of a friend from Vancouver, she said, “I didn’t know you were from there!  Why would you ever leave?”

“Well, it’s like New York housing,” I explained.  “Only with about 60% of the wages to pay for it.”  That’s usually the point where people look actually shocked.  And by “people”, I mean “people from New York”, which is about as expensive as you can get in North America.  No one here will blink at paying $1,000 a square foot to buy a chunk of Brooklyn, but only if they make money proportional to it.  The idea of not making that money and still having to pay that rate for housing is terrifying.  I shudder even thinking of it.

I still stalk Vancouver more than I ever have any old relationship.  I read Doug Coupland books  (and, briefly, jPod the TV series) and listen to Matt Good Band albums and mope.  I watched the entire run of Continuum for no reason other than the fact that it was the Vancouver-iest thing on TV, nevermind that it literally made no sense by the third season.  I’ll occasionally even check out the twenty year old tech of the KatKam (“Hello freighters nestled in the bay!”).  I read Ben Good Night Vancouver until he knew it by heart.

And like most relationships, I regret deeply the missed opportunities.  I regret that I didn’t take the time or opportunity to know the city better, that I never lived anywhere in Old Vancouver, on the East Side, that I always stayed in Kitsilano where it was familiar, where it was close to my friends and the university and looked a lot like my actual home of Victoria.  I regret that I didn’t learn Vancouver the way I learned Los Angeles when I moved there, that I didn’t study the city and its development and change, the waves of immigration and extremes of society that built the city on that chunk of flattish land between the Fraser River and the Narrows.  My sister bought me Vancouver Was Awesome for Chrismukkah a couple years ago and I’m fascinated seeing the old city, one so like Victoria, one I only ever saw ghost outlines of under all that futuristic glass.

And yet, I have no intent of going back to make up that time with the city.  I’m not looking at job listings or apartment listings: even in the days after November 9th, 2016, I looked at Toronto, because I only wax nostalgic and I’m actually extremely practical and pragmatic.  Still, going back isn’t out of the question, either: the exchange and the equity in my Brooklyn apartment would allow us to purchase something at 20% down.  If Paul and I both had jobs, we would probably be OK.  Not great, but OK.  Our quality of life wouldn’t be much different – we’d save less for retirement and Ben’s college, we’d pay more into taxes instead.

I still recognize that “if we had jobs” is a big fat IF though.  I left to find a career in the first place, and Paul’s work is specialized enough that it is challenging to find a fit for him in the Tri-State area, much less on the edge of the world in a country he’s not a citizen of.  Nothing’s impossible, I’m told, and yet I feel like for us to have the same sort of ease of life we do in NYC, the same sort of careers, the same sort of income to housing ratio, I have to tell my former city, I’m sorry, but us remains impossible, Vancouver.

I also remind myself when I’m moping that I love living in New York City.  I grew up in BC, but this is my actual ancestral homeland, as proven by the fact that overall pushiness makes me a perfect fit for NYC.  I have a career type job in marketing, in the epicenter for my industry.  I experience and learn so much here every day that I would never have learned in my safe corner of Canada.  Right now, much of that is about how completely fucked up America is, but at least I am learning something and spurred into action by it, which is a lot better than complacency, idleness and stagnation.

I remind myself that I left British Columbia to See the World, which, at the time, consisted of Living in Los Angeles.  Now it consists of Living in New York With The Occasional Trip to Europe.  I look at Manhattan when I come back across the GW Bridge each day, at the towers bathed in golden light, and I think, this is my home now, and I know the two boroughs I spend the most time in as well as I ever knew Vancouver – and I still have barely scratched the surface of New York City and of America and of all the things I can be curious about and learn and experience here.

(Oh, and I also left on a sort of quest to find my True Love, which actually took less than two years of the thirteen since I left.  I assume if I had wanted to go back, I would have taken my husband and retreated by now.)

Over the last few years, my moping has been taking on a different sort of nostalgia than it did when I was a homesick twenty six year old in West L.A.  Now, as I read article after article about people leaving Vancouver, I realize I am moping over a Vancouver that is gone, that in reality, what remains is a city my friends are abandoning for the suburbs, for Vancouver Island, or for Canada’s other cities where they can afford housing for their own growing families.  My family have moved to Toronto; my friends from UBC have scattered across Canada.  Vancouver has become too needy, too high maintenance, too much for any of us.

This isn’t a Vancouver phenomenon, obviously.  It’s the same thing that’s happened here in New York, to TriBeCa, to the East Village, to downtown Brooklyn, to even the north edges of my neighborhood in Prospect Heights.  But even though I live in New York, and have had to watch Brooklyn’s neighborhoods bleed out their neighborhood culture from a thousand luxury condo cuts, I grieve for Vancouver more.  Now it’s changed so much, I suspect I wouldn’t be able to love the city the same way even if I had a magic opportunity to go back with the same sort of quality of life I have here.

There are dozens of posts about the Vancouver housing crisis from people who didn’t leave in 2004.  This is my love letter, my own sadness, my own loss at the city I called home, a slightly idealized, candy coloured look at a place I lived in when I was twenty-six, that I left because I was going to outgrow it, even if I hadn’t already.  The reasons I left will always be good, and the decision to leave when I did will always be the right one (it’s given me a career and a husband and a son and a ridiculous adventure of just being American) but that isn’t going to stop me from moping at an expert level for the version of the city I left in 2004, and over empathizing with every breakup article.  Oh Vancouver, us remains impossible.


oh hey, it’s the 90s

My husband and I share a bond around our taste in music.  It amused me to no end that after getting my number at Bar Sinister, he STILL had to check my MySpace profile to be sure that I had what he calls “decent taste” in music before he asked me on a date.  I hear that there are couples out there who do not share the same taste in music, but we are not one of them.  Instead, sharing our love of the genre loosely referred to as “alternative” is a huge part of our relationship.  I copy his playlists, laced as they are with Cut Copy and Grimes.  He listens to the same goth podcasts I do.  My taste goes a little further into synthpop (Depeche Mode), his goes further into indie rock (the Pixies) but it’s a wide range of overlap.

So when I read that the 1992 VMAs were up on YouTube, I wanted to watch them with Paul.  He initially questioned why I would want to spend two hours watching a twenty-four year old award ceremony, until he remembered that was the performance where Kris Novoselic from Nirvana clocked himself on the head with his own bass.  Then he was in.  Not only do Paul and I share a love of Nirvana, but we also share a love of mocking things!

This has kicked off a two night mini-marathon of mocking the 90s by watching the 1992 and 1993 VMAs.  Do not get me wrong: Paul and I love the 90s.  Despite it being a decade that gave us Stone Temple Pilots, it also produced a lot of earnestly emotional artists like Tori Amos.  Paul and I both came of age in the 90s and can happily yap about music from that era for hours.  It’s just so strange watching a pop culture event from that era, a perfect time capsule, a moment captured forever.

Media from the 90s also has a weird quality of being from a parallel dimension.  There was no Internet and no texting.  People still had to dial a 1-900 to vote for a video!  The culture and mores are so close to our own, but the underlying access to instant information and communication is missing.  It’s like an alternate reality with no Internet or cell phones.  It’s so strange to see that and realize that the access to instant written messages would take place so quickly that culture wouldn’t even have a chance to dramatically change before it became ubiquitous.

And somewhat ironically, the Internet’s inexhaustible trove of information is what makes these things fun.  As each celebrity showed up on stage, we immediately started discussing why they were there.  How would we know why Christian Slater was hosting the 1993 VMAs unless we could use IMDB to verify that True Romance had just come out?  (OK, also, he said it about a minute after we looked it up)

PAUL: Why was Lyle Lovett a thing?
ME: Didn’t he marry somebody famous?
PAUL: Cindy Crawford?
ME: No.  Someone else leggy.
PAUL: (wikipedia entry)  Julia Roberts!

Now, we have to Wikipedia everything about the MTV VMAs because we genuinely do not care about any of the music being “honored”.  But 1993 had REM!  We know all the facts we need to know about REM by heart:

PAUL: What REM album came out that year? Monster?
ME: No, Automatic.  Monster was 1994.  It was the soundtrack to my senior year of high school (Ironically, Out of Time is the soundtrack to my college senior year in 2003)

Also, we have both agreed that Soul Asylum, in hindsight, were an OK rock band, but wow, was their big hit whiny:

ME: Look how earnest Dave Pirner is with his white boy dreads!
PAUL: Wow, impressive you still remember the name of the lead singer of Soul Asylum
ME: I also know that the lead singer of Counting Crows is Adam Duritz
PAUL: Nope.  Not as impressive.

Other things we agree on:

  • Vs was Pearl Jam’s best work because they were still angst ridden.  Whereas now they are just a bunch of hippies.
  • Similarly, In Utero is astonishingly better listening to it in our 30s than it was when we were teenagers who didn’t quite fully appreciate it
  • Paul knows more Tori Amos than I gave him credit for, but I still know all the lyrics to Under the Pink  (He listened to more Liz Phair instead)

Things we do not agree on:

  • Sunny Day Real Estate.  I loved their first album.  Paul seems to think they are the source of all things emo and makes a face every time I point out that I had this album cover poster:rs-229558-4.-Sunny-Day-Real-Estate-Diary-1994[1]
  •  I admitted to knowing all the words to Counting Crows’  August & Everything After and got a look of WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY GOTH WIFE
  • Hair rock bands.  I suspect Paul still has a soft spot for the Def Leppards of the world; I literally cannot name one of their songs.

It still makes for an entertaining discussion, being able to converse with my husband about this kind of shared pop culture background.  The last few years before the Internet gave us a less diverse view of the world, one that was clunkier, but less splintered, than the access to popular culture we have now.  In 1992, if you wanted to hear alt-rock, you picked up the college radio ‘zines and SPIN magazine and learned the bands names’ without hearing them.  Post-internet, post-iTunes, everything is singles, everything is one song only, and it’s easy to find single after single in one sub-sub-genre of music.

We will be the last generation to remember a world without the Internet.  We may as well get the chance to mock the culture as it was on the cusp of that change.

camp needs a montage

There is a scene in the Muppet Movie (the new one) in which the Muppets transform an abandoned Hollywood theater to the soundtrack of Jefferson Starship’s “We Built This City [On Rock & Roll]”.  I actually have a memory of building Arts County Fair 11 to the same song playing over the T-Bird stadium speakers.  Whether this is a real memory or my brain creating a montage, I can’t say – but there are many parallels between the Muppets and the Arts Undergrad Society and it would certainly have been apt.

The same montage came to mind when I was walking around camp this weekend at Fahnestock.  We had three troops out: the 5th (the O.G.s of alternative scouting in Brooklyn), the 67th (my new troop that I started last spring) and the 89th (a troop that started with minimal assistance from the 5th).  We even had a couple of our friends from the 91st in Kingston stop by.  It was the Empire State Hullabaloo – and it was a small city.  We had close to two hundred people, youth Scouts, Rovers and parents, all camping despite the rain, all happy to be there.  We built this city more on Google Docs and Slack than on rock’n’roll, but we built it.

It hasn’t always been an easy road.  The difference between the Brooklyn Scouts and Guides Canada is that, in the latter, I had an infrastructure.  I had best practices.  I had meeting plans.  I had a national organization handling registration, payment, uniforms, insurance, waivers and background checks.  In B-PSA, I have a program, but it doesn’t come with any of that.  I have to figure out how to register my people and collect their dues.  My fellow leaders had to figure out how to get an insurance policy.  I found the background check partner we work with.  I have things to do every single day that would have been either handled or guided by Girl Guides if I was still with that organization.  It’s exhausting, especially at scale.

It’s still been the most rewarding thing I’ve done in my life though.  I see my son, who understands the timeless moral framework of the Scout laws.  I see the Otters gathered around and singing at meetings.  I see the Timberwolves learning how to treat a broken arm in a sling at camp. I see the Pathfinders hiking a mountain.  I see these Scouts I’ve worked with for years, all growing and developing, learning and becoming their own people with the influence of this century-old “game”, and each of them being better for it.  And I see myself, committed to something solid and real, building a community, giving back to an organization I got so much out of: it’s made me a better parent and friend, a better manager, a better person to return to an organization so similar to the one I participated in for a decade in Canada.

This weekend, so many of the families camping have become our friends that for me, it’s a social event as much as it is work.  It’s my village and my community.  We have all made so many friends and met so many wonderful people through 5th Brooklyn Scouts that we haven’t felt like transplants since we joined.

I’m one of the prime movers of this organization.  I drive hard, and I push hard, and I work to move it forward, to grow our group, to bring new Scouts in as I did building out the 67th Wallabout Bay group, and making sure we have everything in place for all our Scouts to participate.  I’m there, behind the scenes sometimes, other times in front of the Scouts.  I have done service to grow this group, more than I think at times I have to give.  There’s a lot of days when I’d rather be in a spin class than at a meeting or at a Depeche Mode club night instead of at a camp – but I am there anyways, doing my best (as our Timberwolves say).

I entirely wasn’t sure why I did it until this weekend, when one of the other parents came up to me and told me my parents were at camp, that my mother and father were there.  Wrong Gillian, of course, but it made me a little sad thinking, what if my parents were there?  What would they have thought of the temporary villages we put up, of Otterland and Timberwolf Village, of the camp with all those Scouts, that I helped so much to build?

That’s when I realized, my parents helped me become the person who would do this.  My mother would see this as a new version of her Lasqueti Island commune.  My father would be astounded that Lord Robert Baden-Powell’s teachings were still being read in the twenty-first century, and in Brooklyn of all places.  Between my American mother and her years on a BC commune and my British father and his childhood in Scouting, lies a Scout camp with 109 youth Scouts and their families in 2017.

My family history is one of the narratives that forms my vision for the Brooklyn Scout movement.  That in turn makes me grateful that these are the values I got from my parents.  For better or worse, this is the person I am, the leader I am, and I am thankful that the motivation to contribute to this new Scouting movement and community is intrinsic to me.  There are many things flawed with my childhood, yet I got so much from my parents that I keep discovering new aspects of their teachings, even into my adulthood.

We built this city on rock’n’roll, and we built this camp on the belief that we could create this movement and bring this Game to Brooklyn.  Walking through camp this weekend, I was unbelievably proud to have been able to contribute so much to it over the past four years, and to have had a hand in working with so many people to build it.  I think my father would have been amazed to see it, and I know my mother is reading this and thinking, at least I didn’t have to bake bread for seventy people in the process on a daily basis.



NYC is about being Younger

I have always been a fan of Darren Star’s work. I watched 90210 in high school, Melrose Place in what should have been college years, the entire run of Sex and the City. It sometimes surprises people when I can quote entire swaths of the latter, complete with episode numbers and titles (Side note: My favorite season is Season 2, although I appreciated Seasons 5 and 6 more as I grew up. and I am Team Aidan, since he isn’t creepily old like Mr. Big.  I realize that is supposed to be sophistication but yeesh. )

It should therefore come as no surprise that I am a huge fan of Younger, the TV Land series produced by Star and costumed by Pat Field, the SatC wardrobe mistress. It is the story of a forty year old divorcee, Liza Miller (Sutton Foster), who, after being a SAHM her whole adult life, finds herself not only on her own, but with no assets due to her husband’s gambling debts. Liza doesn’t even have a roof over her head after losing her New Jersey suburban home. She goes to stay with her dear friend, artist Maggie (Debi Mazar) who owns a loft in Williamsburg she bought in the 90s (SLIGHTLY PLAUSIBLE). Liza attempts to go back into the workforce in her old career as a book editor, but soon learns she is unhireable after being out of the industry for sixteen years. It is only when she starts lying about her age and says she is 26 that she secures employment as an assistant to the marketing lead of the fictional Empirical Books, Diana Trout (Miriam Shor).  (Note that this addresses every mother’s worst fears: that staying home will kill our careers.)

The clever premise of the show is the way that this lie, while created for work, extends to personal. Through the inadvertent friendships and relationships she forges along the way, Liza must keep up the facade of being 26.  The show is therefore ultimately about relationships and trust, and the stress it places on the former when you lack the latter.

Trust – or lack thereof – is not the part I find relatable though. What I do find relatable is the need to be young in New York City. Los Angeles thrived on youthful appearance as a commodity; New York seems to thrive on the cultural aspects of being young, or rather, it is a city that emphasizes the culture that one cares about most while young. Fashion is the most obvious: the street style here is amazing no matter the age of the person wearing it. There’s an expectation though to know the best restaurants, bars, neighborhoods, music, art, plays – all these cultural touchpoints that most people stop paying attention to when they reach a certain age, that in New York are still as relevant to a 26 year old as a 40 year old.

Perhaps I am biased in that regard, since I work in an industry that is extremely heavy in millenials. Still, I feel like there’s more opportunity here to keep the most culturally dialed in parts of one’s 26 year old self. When I was 26, I cared about all of the things 26 year olds care about:seeing indie bands at Spaceland, shopping in Venice Beach boutiques, going to parties at MOCA. In New York, I still care about those sort of things.  I may not actually do those things, but I know they are there in a way that I might not if it wasn’t always a possibility to engage with culture. Perhaps it says something about American culture in that, when one gets older, one is supposed to stop caring about fashion and music and art, but in New York, those things are so perennially important that they can’t be abandoned as one ages.

It’s also the access and option to participate in so much youth culture that conflicts with my responsibilities as an almost 40 year old. There are always going to be club nights I want to go to, new restaurants to try, trendy fitness classes to do – things I might have had time and energy to do at 26 but not at almost 40. More than Los Angeles, I feel younger here myself: having access to this much ageless culture makes me feel like I am caught.  I’m torn between having the same enthusiasm I had for being in the Big City in 2004, and being the responsible adult I am in 2017.

So that’s why I empathize so much with Younger. It isn’t the emotional premise, as it was with SaTC, but rather, the cultural premise. Liza’s character dresses like a millenial for work, a pronounced difference between her image and her boss’. She lives in Brooklyn(!)  Her friends go to House of Yes. She goes out to parties and rooftop bars in Manhattan. She does all these things that are age appropriate for 26 – but are still so available to those of us who are almost 40.

all grown up now

I wasn’t going to post this originally – and then I got into a discussion about high school elsewhere on Facebook, and decided to do so anyways.

I had a nightmare about high school last week. Or rather, about the high school reunion, the one I didn’t attend two years ago (I had walking pneumonia and it was the weekend of the 2nd Annual BPSA Moot. Even i had been well, I had grownup obligations.)

In this dream, I was at the reunion, with a lot of the same people I am now Facebook and Instagram friends with. We were all as we are now, adults. And I started making a speech about how I forgave everyone for their cruelty, about how glad I was that we could all be friends as adults, that we could now be grownups with so much in common.

Image result for oak bay high

This is the “old” wing of Oak Bay High’s “East” building, 1929 – 2015.  The school was demolished and rebuilt in 2015, the year of our twenty year reunion.

After all, my high school classmates are, like me, products of the Canadian middle class in the late twentieth century. We all share the same cheerful view of our homeland (similar to our fellow GenXer Prime Minister’s) instilled in us by years of CBC and the Ministry of Heritage, tempered with our years of trying to grow up during a provincial recession. We are all from Victoria, a city between Vancouver and Seattle, a weirdly schizophrenic city poised between the nineteenth and twenty first century. We should have tons in common by now. And, as we all have entered the Grown Up phases of our lives, with partners and children and/or other dependents, those commonalities have increased, and I’m actually now engaging more with People I Knew At Oak Bay High than I was when we all actually went there.

Having much in common and even renewing friendships (in a range from genuine to superficial) does not make up for years of cruelty and exclusion in my subconscious though. When I looked up, in my dream, from this heartfelt statement of forgiveness and subsequent emotional investment, everyone was gone, off to hang out at a classmate’ s business. They had all left to go socialize and had not even told me they were leaving the reunion, much less invited me along.

In reality, when awake, I would disregard that behavior as ridiculous.  Real adults address their problems with other adults.  It is children who exclude and abandon out of a heartless combination of thoughtlessness and malice, a combination that is unacceptable. Still, if an actual grown-ass adult behaved that way, ghosting my company without a goodbye or explanation, I would, to this day, pause to consider my behavior, to try and figure out if I had done something to justify exclusion before realizing that it wasn’t my fault.  Other adults’ childish behavior is not deserving of my introspection or self-blame.

In dreams though, that kind of learned, logical, corrective behavior doesn’t kick in. In dreams, we’re poking around in corners of our brains that our waking selves have long since papered over.  So instead, I just felt the deep humiliation and shame I would have as a teenager.  I just felt like I had done something wrong, and that people didn’t like me, and it was somehow my own fault for being too emotionally needy and clumsy, too messy, too loud – and too ugly and fat to be able to make up for those shortcomings.

And that’s when I woke up.

It’s twenty years since high school, and I’ve had to accept that I am never going to be able to gloss over the decade between grades two and twelve. I believed in my teen years that I was undeserving of human contact because of my failure to modulate my behavior and my physical shape in a socially acceptable way.  I was too loud and too emotionally sloppy, a bad combination to start with, a lethal one when combined with a status as “the fat girl”. It was ten year period that started with elementary school cruelty, ran into the middle school meanness, and ended with senior high loneliness, as the childhood mockery dwindled into mere exclusion.

I have reduced both the loudness and my size, placing my behavior and my body well within the acceptable lines of North American society.  Still, as an adult, I now live with a low-level paranoid anxiety that people do not like me, that I am unlikeable as a person – no matter what my body size, unless I carefully maintain behavior that is considered “likeable”. It’s a fallacy that I often have to logically remind myself isn’t true.  Not everyone is going to like me as an adult, but sometimes, that’s just the way things go.  Not everyone has to be my friend.

And yet, here is this old hurt, these ancient humiliations, cluttering up my brain and my dreams.  It’s only within the last few years that I’ve really managed to shake the shame, that sense of deserving all that loneliness.  I’d love to be able to clean this narrative up, reduce it down to just undeserved bullying, but I’m unable to do so.  I think that’s the worst part for the victims of bullying, is the sense that we deserved it based on behavior or actions or looks we failed to change.

Bullying teaches its victims that we should feel ashamed to be who we are, that we are unacceptable as people.

Why does all this matter now?  Or rather, why is this coming up?  I’m not quite sure.  It isn’t as if this hasn’t been dealt with.  I did paper over all this for years, re-inventing myself over and over and over again.  I didn’t want to be the sort of person who had a horrible time in elementary and high school.  I wanted to be the sort of person who was totally normal: well dressed, socially active, attractive.  The sort of adult I wanted to be in my twenties wouldn’t have had been such a freak as a child.

And yet the woman I am in my thirties has had to take all that history out, air it a bit, and accept that yes – this is who I am and this is what made me who I am.  And who I am is enough.  High school is behind us all, and we have all made out of our experiences there whatever we can, taken whatever we can and moved on.  Nightmares or reliving old humiliations doesn’t change who I am today, nor will it change the person I will continue evolving into tomorrow.  The impact that time has on my life is forever, but finite. Perhaps by writing all this down & writing all this out, I can remind myself of that perspective and ensure that random throwback dreams remain irrelevant.