The Cure for Social Isolation, a post by @GiselleRenarde

I've had a rough couple weeks. Pretty common, for a depressed person. The difference this time was that I was started to feel socially isolated. I can't remember another time when I would have plastered that label all over myself, but it got so bad I started reaching out to actual humans. And I never do that.

I got in touch with my oldest friend. We have a close bond. I know stuff about her that she doesn't tell most people. I knew her when she was going through some tough PTSD shit. She knew me when I was young and foolish.

Now we live in different cities and we rarely see one another. We rarely even talk, but somehow that doesn't matter. The bond between us is so strong we don't need to be in constant contact to feel connected.

But sometimes I need support, and sometimes she does, and that's usually when we reach out to each other.

It was me reaching out, this time. We made plans to see each other. Unfortunately, the father of a friend of hers died, and she had to drive clear across the province for the funeral. We formulated new plans for when she'd be passing through Toronto on her way home, but the thing about my friend is that she has a very serious health condition and her depressed immune system meant she became quite ill and stuck in the small town where her friend lives.

So none of our plans panned out. I don't blame her, obviously. But that doesn't stop me from being sad that we didn't get to see each other.

Depression and social isolation mingle in this weird way where the isolation is crying out, "I want to see someone," and the depression is whispering, "No you don't.  You just stay right here by me."  It's so seductive, the way it holds you close and runs its fingers through your hair. Depression has such a good grip on a person like me. It knows how to keep me from seeking out solace in the social sphere.

Through all this, my girlfriend's been working her ass off getting ready for a charity event she helps to run. She called me one night when she'd planned on coming over and said she was just too tired.  She'd been doing hard physical labour for 12 hours. I understood.  But I was so sad about not being able to connect with anyone, not even my own girlfriend, that when she called I was just silent on the phone.  I couldn't speak. I was too sad, but I couldn't explain why. I literally couldn't produce words.

It led to a very unfortunate misunderstanding, which I couldn't clear up because... Depression. Sweet was upset with me.  She didn't know everything that had happened with my friend getting sick and all that.  She just thought I was being a selfish brat.

When I woke up Saturday morning (okay, afternoon), life wasn't looking good.  The only thing I had to look forward was picking up a hold at the library.  And, to be honest, sometimes I get really jazzed about that.  But not when Depression's got me in her grip.

Thank goodness for radio. It's gotten me through some really rough times. And not just the music, but the hosts too.

I was listening to an indie rock station, and the host was talking about how she'd been feeling really irritated because she knew the streetcar she took to work would be diverted. The route change had to do with King Street being turned into a pedestrian walkway during the Toronto International Film Festival.

The radio host said that, after feeling disgruntled about the change in her commute, she decided to simply leave the house early, get off the streetcar where the road closure started, and walk through the pedestrian section of the street. And doing so took her from being irritated that her route was interrupted to feeling elated by the buoyant energy of all these people trying to get a glimpse of movie stars.

So I thought... you know what?  I'm going to King Street.

I'll tell you something about me: I don't even like movies. I have the attention span of a fruit fly. I cannot sit through a movie.  Just ask my girlfriend. She's a movie buff.  But she has a movie friend who goes to the movies with her, because I just can't.

I didn't go to the film festival for the movies.  I went for the people.

And you know what?

It worked.

As soon as I got to King Street, where it was blocked off for pedestrian use, the energy all around was just electric. There were people of all ages snapping photos, laughing and talking, lining up to try samples of products.  Restaurants had spilled out onto the street. Roads became patios.

But it was the people that helped me shake this bout of depression. Their excitement was frenetic.  There were big screens set up, I guess to broadcast celebrities getting out of limos?  I don't know. I'm really not up on pop culture.  But just that sound of teens squealing, the general frenzy, the joy and anticipation--it lifted me out of the pit I'd been living in for weeks.

My girlfriend's volunteer event was only a few blocks away, so I walked up to meet her.  She'd been on her feet for ten hours by that point, but she wasn't too busy talk.  I was finally able to tell her everything that had been going on, and she said that if she'd realized all that she'd have cut me some slack instead of arguing.  We spent the rest of the evening together and it was great.  And a big part of the greatness was being out in the city, in these big crowds of people.

So the cure for social isolation is... people?  That seems a little too simplistic.

I've been thinking about those who are depressed and living in smaller communities. If they go out to a community gathering, they're probably going to see people they know.  The key, for me, was in being able to go out and be around people I didn't know. For me, that first step toward integrating myself more fully into the world is being anonymous in the world. Being around people, but being a nobody.  Enjoying the energy and excitement of an event without really being part of it.  I don't drive. If I lived in a tiny community, I'm not sure what I'd do.

But for those of us who live in active, vibrant cities, the cure for social isolation might simply be to find a crowd that's excited about something fun.  Steal that collective energy before it dissipates.  If you're anything like me, you need it.

It's funny--I was on the subway the other day and a man got on with his leg in a cast.  He was having trouble negotiating the crowd and I asked him if he needed a hand.  He thanked me, but said he was doing okay. He told me: "My motto is I'd rather have pain like this, that's visible on the outside, than pain on the inside that no one else can see."

I swear that man was reading my soul.

By the way, if you need something to look forward to every day, you can visit my Donuts and Desires blog every day in September for Erotica Every Day, which is exactly what it sounds like. I'm posting a different flash fiction story each day at this link: http://donutsdesires.blogspot.com/2018/08/erotica-every-day-trust-me.html

Why don't you visit more often? heh

The Value of a Dollar (or "Buddy, Can You Spare Five Bucks?")

a post by Giselle Renarde

Mother's Day, I was coming back from visiting my grandma at the retirement home. As I sat there on the subway, a middle-aged man came around asking for change. So I reached into the pocket of my jacket, pulled out all the money I had in there, and placed it in his hand. I'm not sure how much I gave him. I remember it was 4 coins, and we don't use pennies anymore in Canada, so it could have been as little as 20 cents. Whatever it was, it was all my change.

The guy looked at the money, looked at me, and said, "Is that it?  Don't you have more?"

I burst out laughing.

Every time I tell this story, the person I'm telling is either highly scandalized or highly concerned for my personal safety. I get reactions like "Weren't you scared?" (nope) and "How rude!" (*shrugs*). I thought it was the funniest thing ever. I must have a warped sense of humour, because nobody else gets the joke.

Anyway, when the guy asked "Don't you have more?" I actually reached back into my pocket to make sure I hadn't missed anything. I hadn't.  I told him, "Dude, you've cleaned me out. That's all I got."  Maybe it's my winning smile, but I finally got him to laugh along.

The audacity! You ask a stranger for the money and they have the nerve to give you only...

...only...

...only... what?  How much is too little?

If this had been an isolated incident, it would have stuck with me as a funny story, nothing more. But here's the thing: it happened again.

There's this other man--and if you've taken the subway in Toronto any time in the past 30 years, you're picturing him already--who asked me for change last week.

I've got a special set of feels for this guy, because one time 20 years ago I was really rude to him. I'm a much more empathetic person now than I was back then, so every time I see him, I make sure to give him my change and be extra-extra sweet and lovely. I've never heard his voice. He just comes around to each person on the subway car and puts his hand out until you acknowledge him--whether that means giving him some money or saying no you don't have anything, or even just shaking your head.

So anyway, he came over to me and I gave him all the change I had in my pocket (it was less than a dollar, I'm not sure how much exactly) and every other time we've had this exchange, he's kind of bowed to acknowledge the donation and gone on to the next person.

This time, he looked at the money I'd put in his palm, and he didn't move on.  He looked down at my purse and sort of indicated with his hand that he'd like some wallet-money please. Pocket money wasn't enough.  I told him I was sorry, I'd given all I had (which wasn't strictly true--he was right, there WAS money in my wallet, but like... not a lot! heh).

He still didn't move on.

Awkward.

I'm used to this guy. We've been having these exchanges for years. Decades. The wanting more was... new.

Finally, I said, "Have a good night," and he bowed and went on to the next guy. Maybe I'd forgotten my line?  Maybe he was waiting for the goodnight? No, that's silly.  He wanted more money from me. And I can hardly blame him. The last few times I've watched him make his way through the subway car, I haven't seen even one other person give him anything--not even a word. The rich white lady he'd gone up to before me refused to even acknowledge his existence.  She just kept talking to her husband until he told my old friend to go away.

A couple years ago I was walking along Yonge Street and an older man was standing outside Tim's shaking an empty cup.  I said to him, "Let's see what I've got in my pocket today" and it turned out to be... not a lot.  I was kind of sheepish, like, "Okay... well, this isn't much but you can have it." He told me he appreciated the money, but what he appreciated even more was that I'd stopped and said hello.

I don't expect everyone who asks me for change to take this approach, but I love when it happens--because time is something I have for just about anyone I see on the street.  I probably sound like a huge Pollyanna in this post, but the truth is that I'm a total cynic. I don't trust people. I assume pretty much everything I hear is a lie. But I reached a point, a few years ago, where I decided I didn't care. People were always going to lie and cheat. It's part of human nature. I can choose to be kind regardless. That's not naivete. It's sublime.

Anyway, I'm veering off track.  As usual.

What I really wanted to focus on was... well, exactly what I put in the title of this post: the value of a dollar.  Because I'm coming to realize, more and more, that a dollar is a different animal, depending on who is looking at it.

If I sell a book for $0.99 at Amazon, want to know how much I earn in royalties?  You probably know already.  It's 35 cents.  So when I hand 35 cents off to someone who asks for change, to me, that 35 cents denotes one book, one sale.  It was probably a short story, if I was selling it for $0.99, but regardless.  It has value to me.

Now I'm realizing that, to most of the people in my city, whether they're living on the margins or they're the types who have so much money they won't even acknowledge someone living on the margins, 35 cents is... an insult.  It's not even nothing. It's worse than nothing.

But... but... but... I love my 35 cents.

One time, about 10 years ago, I was at Buskerfest watching this busker who was really entertaining and funny and impressive.  I wanted to give him some pocket money.  When his act was over, before he passed around his hat, he said, "Busking is my profession, so please take that into account when you make your donation. I'll take your paper money, loonies and toonies..." (those are $1 and $2 coins, for anyone who doesn't speak Canadian) "...but if all you've got is small change, keep it in your pocket and I hope things pick up for you."

So I didn't make a donation, even though I really enjoyed his performance, because all I had was small change and he specifically stated that he didn't want any.

But the part about hoping things pick up... I don't think that way. I'm happy with my lot in life. A dollar still means something to me.  I get excited when I find a nickel on the sidewalk. And I like that about myself.

Before I go, I just want to invite everyone over to my place (meaning my Donuts and Desires blog) in September.

I'll be posting FREE EROTICA there every day!

And I won't even pass a hat.  It's yours to enjoy. 

Details here: http://donutsdesires.blogspot.com/2018/08/exciting-news-about-erotica-every-day.html

Dark Days and Brighter Ones

by Giselle Renarde

When BBC World News mentions the city you live in, that usually isn't a good thing. Usually it's because something horrendous has happened. Such was the case on Monday, when a van mounted the sidewalk on Yonge Street between Sheppard and Finch in north Toronto. The driver proceeded to brutally and deliberately run down pedestrians, leaving 10 dead and 15 injured at last count.

The area of the city in which this atrocity occurred, the very core of the former borough of North York, is close to my heart.

In the early 90s, my choir performed our concerts at the newly-constructed theatre there.

When my sister became a concert pianist, one of her first public recitals was in Mel Lastman Square, where a vigil will be held on Sunday for those who died this week.

But the biggest reason I hold that neighbourhood in my heart is that I met my girlfriend when I got a job along that stretch of Yonge Street. She'd been working there a year or so. We didn't really notice each other, at first. It certainly wasn't love at first sight. In fact, neither of us remembers the day we met, what the other was wearing, none of that stuff. Doesn't matter. Once we started talking, it grew from there.

Hard to believe we met over a decade ago.

Our 10-year anniversary (the anniversary of our first date) is coming up on May 1st.

While our first date was in the cemetery near my house, during the first few years of our relationship we spent most of our time in the Yonge and Sheppard area. Some of that time was spent working together, sure, but when you work with a new love, getting up in the morning is a joy. I always looked forward to seeing her when I got in.

During our lunch breaks, we'd go to one of the restaurants along Yonge, or grab a bite at Tim's, or bring a packed lunch and eat in the sun at Mel Lastman Square. We had some very serious conversations in that square.

We took many walks through York Cemetery, too. I've always loved cemeteries. Last year, for our 9th anniversary, Sweet took me to visit her mother's grave. It was the first time I'd been. I was very moved by the gesture. As we were leaving, we saw deer just inside the gates. Two of them. Sweet stopped the car and took out her camera.

Any time I see deer in a cemetery, I always think it means something. They probably just like the stretches of open grounds.

You would think this week's atrocity on land that holds so many beautiful memories would taint those memories, but that's not the case. If anything, the outpouring of grief from all corners of the city, all corners of the planet, has bolstered my love of the neighbourhood where I met my girlfriend. Where we had our first kiss. Where we walked together, talked together, fucked in a storage closet--you name it, we did it in North York.

As our 10-year anniversary approaches, the place where it all began is on my mind and in my heart. This whole week, I've reflected on the spaces we occupied in those early days. And the people we met, people who lived and worked in the area.

It's a solemn time for Toronto. We are wounded, but every day we heal a little more by showing each other a level of kindness I've never seen in this city. Torontonians aren't exactly known for being kind--just ask any Canadian who doesn't live here. I'm hoping that, in the aftermath of tragedy, we can hold on to the insight we share today: the recognition that we all deserve to be treated with dignity, with kindness, with respect.

Library Voices

by Giselle Renarde

Once upon a time I was a teenager at the Toronto Reference Library.

A friend had introduced me to this edifice downtown, far from the wilds of suburbia, where books were housed, of course, but in addition to books they had all sorts of other media.  Oh sure, so did my local library, but the difference with the Reference Library was that they had listening booths. 

My friend showed me how to select a CD to listen to (a CD!  I didn't have a CD player yet!  This was really the future!) and check in with the lady guarding the listening booths and put on headphones and sit... and just listen.

We were both big on Broadway musicals, so we both picked out musicals to listen to.  I don't remember what she selected, but I picked out a musical called City of Angels.  I'd never even heard of it.  To this day I remember nothing about the soundtrack, but I remember the experience.

I wasn't the kind of kid (or teen) who went out with friends very much. I had too many family responsibilities, plus the cost of going out was prohibitive. To get to the Reference Library, I had to take a bus and a subway, and, while my mother covered the cost of my transit fare to and from school (I went to a high school that was out of area for me, a good hour from my house), any time I wanted to go anywhere that wasn't school-related it was my responsibility to cover my transit costs. 

Part of the reason I didn't go out with friends much is that the things they wanted to do cost money.  I was saving my money for university.

From the time I could write words on paper, every year at Christmas I would put the same one item in my letter to Santa: a university education. My parents hadn't gone to university.  My grandparents hadn't finished high school.  I would be the first in my family to get a degree.

You'd think a mom would be proud that her child had such lofty aspirations, but something else won out over pride with my mom--either pragmatism or crab-bucket jealousy, I don't know.  Every year she'd laugh at my letter to Santa.  She'd say, "If you want to go to university, you're on your own. I'm not paying for it."

I got my first summer job when I was 8 years old.  Picking berries. Same first job my grandfather had 58 years before me.  He earned half a penny per pint.  I earned 25 cents. Thank you, inflation.

But that money didn't last long.  Because the thing about living with a substance abuser is that sometimes they steal from you. Sometimes they steal every penny of berry picking money you earn. Babysitting money, birthday money. Addiction breeds desperation.

It's true what they say: life isn't fair.

And, you see, this is why it was a very difficult decision to go out or not to go out: can I afford to spend $1.35 on transit fare?  It'll take a lot of dollar-thirty-fives to add up to a university education.

So, more than not, I stayed home. 

But that day, when my friend invited me to the Reference Library, I decided to go out. Of all the friend-dates a person could go on, the library's a pretty good one.  And not just because it's free, although that's an attractive quality for sure.  It was more the fact that we could sit side by side at listening booths and just... listen.  No talking allowed. 

Libraries were different back then.

Not being allowed to talk can really be quite freeing.  People found me standoffish as a teen, but that's really because I had so much shame about my family of origin.  I didn't want people trying to get close to me and discovering what was behind the facade.  I didn't want people asking questions.

My friend didn't ask me a lot of questions. I didn't ask her questions either. I knew it was just her and her mom.  I didn't ask about her father because I didn't want her to ask about mine.  By that time my mother had a restraining order against him. He lived in a motel room in a small town, but he often swung by our place to break into our house, destroy our belongings, and threaten to murder us all.

One time my friend invited me to her place when her mom was at work.  She wasn't supposed to have people over, but her mother would never know.  It was kind of exciting for me to take the streetcar to her neighbourhood because she lived in a gentrified area with lots of quirky boutiques.

As it turned out, her house was one of the forgotten left-behind ones.  It was the tiniest house I'd ever seen, just two small bedrooms off one main living area that incorporated the kitchen. There must have been a bathroom somewhere but I can't recall seeing it.

The bedrooms had carpeting, but the main room was just a dirt floor covered in pine needles.

My friend transferred out of my school in Grade 10.  I heard she went to an alternative school, but I don't think she lasted long there. In Grade 12, I went to a university fair at the convention centre and there was my friend! I hadn't seen her in two years. I was overjoyed to see her again. I loved her in a way I still hadn't learned to express.

But she wasn't attending the university fair as a prospecting high school student. She was working it as a security guard. She'd dropped out of high school. She hoped to return at some point but she and her mom really needed the money and, well, you know how it is...

After working part-time and summer jobs throughout high school, I was able to afford my first year of tuition at the University of Toronto, but it was tight. Throughout university, I think I spent more time working than studying.

When I finally had that degree in hand, it was really a non-event. Aside from my grandmother, nobody in my family seemed to care much about my achievement.  But I never expected them to.

http://gisellerenarde.com