Dear Rolling Stone,

This is my quiet, safe neighbourhood. 

These are my feet (please note they are still attached to my legs).

This is my beautiful, breathing daughter. 

I still have all of these things. The feeling of safety in my home, my limbs, my daughter... My normal life. 

My normal life was interrupted on the morning of April 15th as I sat on Twitter and watched as terror took over on the streets of Boston. I sat, horrified, glued to Twitter and CNN as details emerged. Details that made my blood turn cold, my heart to sink and tears to fall freely. 

Details of bombs exploding in crowds of thousands of people watching the historic Boston Marathon. 

Details of unknown men in the crowd, known only by blurry security footage, walking calmly from the scene of the unfolding horror. 

Details of neighbourhoods on lockdown, major transportation stopped and a massive manhunt. 

For roughly 4 days of my normal life, I checked in constantly, hoping for an end to the fear, injuries and death. Until day 4, that end didn't come. 

For 4 days the people of Boston and surrounding areas lived in the unknown. No idea what would come next, no idea when it would end. 

5 people (including one of the bombers) died in those days. It's a miracle that number was so low. 

264 people were physically injured. Some requiring amputation. 

The western world was traumatized. 

It was a display of some of the worst of humanity and some of the best. 2 brothers determined to destroy lives and one city determined not to let those brothers do anymore damage. People unconcerned for their own safety rushing into the streets to help the wounded. People opening their hearts and homes to displaced visitors. 

Boston may have had their doors locked but their hearts were open. 

By now you're probably wondering where I'm going with this. Pictures of my feet, my kid, recounting events everyone knows...

Well Rolling Stone, this morning I found out that this was your cover; 

This face stared at me. Tousled hair, intense stare, baby face. If you looked in passing it could be any boy band member, a young rockstar, an up and coming actor, but it's not Rolling Stone, its not. 

That is the face of Dzhokhar Tsarnaev. The man who set off a bomb in a crowd of people, the man who ran over his own brother, the man who caused a shoot out with police in an otherwise quiet neighbourhood, the man whose face is already etched into minds of all those affected by the Boston Bombings. 

A murderer. 

You made the insensitive and irresponsible choice to make the infamous, famous. 

Jay-Z, Justin Bieber, Madonna and even President Obama have graced your cover. Pages filled with music and entertainment. For years anyone who was anyone were on your covers. Anyone who wanted to be anyone dreamt of being on your cover. 

You could have chosen anyone for your cover. Someone glamorous, someone new in music, a rapper, a popstar, a puppy in a hat. Instead, you chose to feature a heartless killing machine. 

Someone who took 4 people away from their families, including a little boy who was still young enough to be eating off the kids menu. 

Someone who caused 264 people pain and suffering and changed their lives drastically forever. 

Someone who took the comfort and feeling of safety away from people. 

So look at your own neighbourhood, Rolling Stone. Your own feet. Your own children and ask yourself;

"If I lost all of these things in the blink of an eye, how would I feel having to look into the eyes of the person who took all this from me in every store, magazine rack and website everyday?"



The Freedom of Selective Isolation

Oh, hello little neglected blog. I know I haven't been here in awhile but here I am. 


If I told people I was an introvert most people would laugh. If I told people I really hated being around people, they would keep laughing. 

Truth is though, I'd rather be alone. I choose my isolation based on a history of people being assholes. I like my hermit life. No one disappoints me, no one breaks promises, no one makes me feel like shit and no one tries to control my life. 

I am in complete control. If there is sadness, anger, joy, disappointment, anything, its on me. It's my problem. Same with my Monkey. I keep her sheltered from people who can disappoint her. People who cancel plans with her, people who lie to her, people who can disappoint her. It's not that I don't let her make friends with kids, kids are kids, she learns and grows from them. Adults however, I select very very carefully who becomes part of her life regularly. Very few pass the test and most just prove to me why I am so selective. 

As for myself, I keep my distance. I'm perfectly happy alone with bursts of social interaction. Does this make it difficult sometimes? Yup, but I've made it this far. I'm tired of people thinking because I have an illness that I can't function all by myself. I hate being made to feel like I require help to survive. I'm 29 years old, last time I checked I'm doing ok. Do I get lonely? Sure, but I remind myself why I made the choices I made and I move on. 

The people I have chosen to keep around acknowledge and respect my need to be alone. To shut off the world and just be by myself. Those who can't understand that can't stay around. It's how I live and I like it. If you don't, the door is over there. 

Life is so much simpler in silence and solitude.