1234.

I was 3. We were driving. Leaving Toronto to move back to Vancouver. I learned how to wink on that drive. My Dad was watching me in the rearview mirror. Good job he said, you did it.

I was 5. We needed a house that fit my parents’ growing family. We moved ten minutes away. I had to switch schools. On the first day of grade 1 the other kids were talking about who their kindergarten teacher was the year before. My kindergarten teacher was not important. No one knew who Mrs. Wells was. It was the first time I had that feeling that I didn’t belong, and that moving is never as much fun as your parents tell you it will be.

I was 10. We left Vancouver for Seattle. Everyone was older than me, kids in America start school later. And I didn’t know why printing was handwriting and handwriting was cursive, or why pencil crayons were colored (sic) pencils and felt pens were markers.  I wanted to hide under my desk. And cry.

I was 14. We moved back to Vancouver. I didn’t know anyone at my school. And it felt like everyone there had known each other since they were 5. I ate lunch in the library that year.

I was 17. I moved to Edmonton. I was 20. I moved back to Vancouver. I was 21. I moved to the UK. I was 22. I moved to the Philippines.

I am 24. And I still want to hide under my desk. And cry. Because I don’t know how to be in this world. I don’t know how to be in the place I am in. But I have these friends, who I like a lot. And I know them because I moved to where they were when I was 3 and 10 and 14 and 17 and 20. And they crawl under the desk with me sometimes. And we laugh because none of us know how to be in this world. But we’re here. And we have each other. And we have music. And we have art. And we have books. And we have today.

This used to be about sobriety. But it isn’t anymore.

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