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My Name Is Kimberly And I Chose To Stay


Hi there, my name is Kimberly. I won’t bore you with details about who I am and  why I am convinced that my mom gave me bipolar disorder the day she cut my hair into a  mullet, but if you feel so inclined, click here.

I don’t know why you are here, perhaps you are looking for the same things that I did when I was in a dark place or maybe you were looking up home remedies for diarrhea. It doesn’t really matter why, I’m just glad that you are here .

Now that we are hanging out like old friends, I want to tell you about that one time when I didn’t want to be here; when I didn’t want to exist in a world of pain anymore. But before that, I’m going to tell you about yesterday.

Yesterday I woke up. Did things that normal people do in the morning like eat, brushing my teeth, taking a shower. I walked my son to school and was fighting to be present to feel his small hand gripping mine. Walked back home from school alone and I didn’t want to be. Cranked up the radio so loud that it drowned out the thoughts. Some other things happened and then I lost my mind in the pharmacy after the third grandma, maybe she was yours, elbowed me while checking her blood pressure.

I fished out my phone and with shaky hands, I texted my support system.

“I’m am not ok.”

Within minutes I had received support.

“Breathe. How about you come over and we build a Lego castle out of the 1000 pieces of bricks I pulled out of the bottom of my foot?”

“You’d better answer me” …. which led to … “Don’t say that and not pick up. PICK UP. I’m at work but I’ll leave if you need me to.”

“Vagina” … because my husband thinks that makes me smile … because I’m weird, it does.

“Here if you need to talk. xoxoxo”

“Take your g*d damn medication,”  she demanded … don’t worry this is her way of making me laugh.

No, they didn’t cure my depression, but they reassured me that I wasn’t alone and that I’ll never have to struggle this alone.

You’re not alone either.

This place that you’re in, I know that place where your soul fights to find its way out of a maze that is seemingly created with only wrong turns. It’s the merciless struggle against the pain that is consuming everything that you loved about life and everything that you loved about you. .

“You’ll never find the end,” depression whispers.

The farther and farther you go, the darker and darker it gets. The pain is insurmountable. You’re lost and you’re tired and you’re giving up hope. Just like I was in October of 2012.

I could not bear to live another second in pain so I made plans to end it. I was a failure at life. I wasn’t worth the air normal people breathed. I was a horrible mom and wife. No one could save my damaged self. I was a burden to everyone. They’d be better off without me.

Instead of carrying through, I reached out my weary hand from that darkness and said:

“Help me.”

Two years later, I’m here writing to you.


I know that it is hard to tell someone that you’re not well. It is the scariest thing that I have ever done but in order to move forward, to heal, to be lifted from the intense weight of our illness, to get our lives back, we need to ask for help.

There will ALWAYS be someone there to fight for you when you can’t. Friends, family, co-worker, neighbor, teacher, classmate, doctors, crisis help lines, and even online support groups. Yes, it may seem odd but some of the greatest support that I’ve ever received was from someone going through the same online — like me!

You’re not alone, (even when you’re sitting in a busy pharmacy, and texting your friends to talk you down)

I want you to try really hard to remember that you once lived in brilliant colour and that my friend, is worth fighting for. Truthfully, it is a struggle but I can tell you that the small things that once made you smile, will  slowly begin to fill in the emptiness that the depression created as you heal.

You are worth it.

And today the world is showing you just how much.



If you’re wondering why I am wearing purple it is because I support the Amanda Todd Legacy Society. Today the world is Lighting up monuments, buildings, houses, businesses etc. in hopes of raising mental health awareness. You don’t have to light up anything purple, you can simply wear purple, carry something purple, and what Carol Todd told me, “Do random acts of kindness. You never know what someone is going through. And talk about it.” 

Please stand with us and put an end to stigma and reach out to those who need us most.

To find out more please visit: http://www.who.int/mental_health/world-mental-health-day/en/ and to find out more about the  Amanda Todd Legacy Society Light  Up The World Purple, please visit here: http://amandatoddlegacy.org/



You do not have to be suicidal to call.

I blog for World Mental Health Day

Cowbells. Cold Beer.

Her name was Billie Jo, the girl with the  beautiful blonde curls that bounced with every heel, toe, step of our dance routine. We were horrible dancers I am sure but we had fun pretending that we were something magnificent. We wore beautiful yellow costumes that were detailed with yellow feathers and silver sequins. My grandma applied her deepest red lipstick on both of us in the stairwell and for some reason, that is the strongest memory I have of her.

We danced our hearts out to a cheering audience of family and friends. I hope with all hopes that when I said that I’d see her at the next dance lesson that I hugged her.

She missed the next class because she was sick. Then missed the next and the next and the next. I inquired about her all of the time but they kept telling me that she was sick. Fed up with the same response, I just stopped asking. I never knew what happened to her until I was in my teens.

Billie Jo had leukemia.

I believe she was six or seven when she passed. I get that parents want to protect their kids from horrific illnesses and death, but I was her friend. I’m sure that she could have used one.

We were going to be famous tap dancers you know?


I’ve only known J* for three years through hockey but in those three years, I have known her to be the most hilarious, down to earth, sarcastic, all around awesome woman who loved her son beyond words. She had a squeaky voice that I loved. It made bitching about our husbands that much more animated. Even on shitty days, her happy was contagious.

Our husbands rigged the teams this year, each one of them coaching together so naturally, our kids have to be on the same team. It was going to be a good year.


She was supposed to bring the cowbell for the game on Sunday because we were determined to be those annoying loud moms. And for added trashy effect, we were going to take turns putting booze in a Tim Hortons “Take Ten” box and paint our kid’s numbers on our faces.

Only Sunday came and she wasn’t there.

J passed away suddenly on Thursday.

She was awesome. 


Hug your significant other.

Hug your child.

Call that friend.

Keep the cowbells annoying and the beers cold for hockey mom row J*

You will always be missed.



No comments just  prayers and thoughts for her six year old son and her husband of 15 years.


Number 46

This post was brought to you by the Canadian Association of Petroleum Producers via sheblogs. The opinions expressed herein are those of the author and are not indicative of the opinions or positions of the Canadian Association of Petroleum Producers.

Weeks of anticipation led to this very moment as he jumped into the rink full throttle. He clutched onto his black hockey stick with its fresh red tape and joined his teammates that were crowded around the goalie. They may be small but their spirits were huge as they chanted “GO BLUE”.

They lined up for face off.

The puck was dropped.

You could see his smile even with the mouth guard stuffed in his mouth when he snatched the puck first and skated as hard as he could towards the net.

Number 46 was on a mission.

My kid.

photo 1 CAPP

Perhaps it’s the Canadian in him, but that kid loves hockey. In the summer, he played street hockey with his dad. When it rained, my husband moved his beloved remodeled car out of the garage and onto the driveway. You could hear the slap shots and cheers echoing from inside our house. Skinned knees and elbows and the occasional face shot weren’t uncommon injuries. I had a stockpile of bandages and ice packs ready for whoever ran into the house first.

photo 2 CAPP

This year, my son plays in Novice Minor which means that he gets to play real games now; ones that count. He worked hard for a month brushing up on his skills and now he’s ready to use them.

I was so proud of him watching him glide with such immense speed that my camera couldn’t even get a crisp picture of him.

photo 3 CAPP

He didn’t score any goals but he played with his team, as a team. They ended up tying the game but truthfully, I don’t think he cared.
photo 41 CAPP

He cared about having fun and that is what matters (and the donut he got after the game).

photo 4 CAPP
Number 46.

In Canada, we bleed hockey.

I’m not sure if you know how long it takes to stuff, wrap, snap, and tape a six year old into his hockey gear nor the amount of protective gear that they wear. Shin pads. Elbow pads. Chest protector contraption thingy with shoulder cups that remind me of a bad case of 1980’s fashion. Mouth guard. Helmet. Hockey socks that go under another set of hockey socks. Thermal underpants thingys. Special shorts that hold his “nugget” cup in place because I would like grandkids one day. Suspenders. Cushioned shorts to protect his bum. Skates. And his jersey.

Then tape to hold all of that together.

And to think that all of that stuff cost me the million dollars that I don’t have and that all of that stuff came from petroleum. Yes, petroleum.

We rely on petroleum in our everyday lives. I didn’t even realize how much of it goes into the things I use every single day. Shoot, just one hockey game uses petroleum products. Gas to get to the rink. The layers of clothes I have to wear to keep warm in the arena because they don’t use petroleum to light up those darn heaters (I need to write a complaint letter about that). The hockey equipment bag that weighs a ton. The Zamboni. The puck. And a really good camera to catch all of the action.

photo 5 CAPP

Think of all of those things and the fact that we, Canada ranks as the third largest oil reserve in the world. With 97% of those reserves in the Oil Sands-­ there is the potential of over 100 years of production. That’s pretty astonishing if you think about it, especially when we rely so much on it. The future of our energy lies in the oil sands as it is a secure source to meet our growing demands.
Demands like equipment for these little guys and gals wanting to kick arse on the ice and have fun.

For more information about the Oil Sands industry visit oilsandstoday.ca 


This post was brought to you by the Canadian Association of Petroleum Producers via sheblogs. The opinions expressed herein are those of the author and are not indicative of the opinions or positions of the Canadian Association of Petroleum Producers.


The Tile Guy

I can hear his feet above, carefully maneuvering around the cabinet corners and his hands smoothing the course dust off of the walls.

It’s the sound of pretty.

The tile guy.

He was recommended by our kitchen guy who said in a “I’m not a dude who digs wieners” kind of way, that tile guy was pretty.

Tile guy showed up at our house wearing a snug shirt, even snugger jeans, hair perfectly gelled into place, and dreamy cologne. He smiled when he spoke with an accent from some-I-don’t-care-wear-because-accents-make-you-automatically-5-points-hotter and I wanted to feel the stubble on his face.

“Damn. The kitchen guy was right. He is pretty,” Shawn nudged.

In other related news, today Shawn and I will be celebrating our 11 year wedding anniversary. Shawn’s at work so tile guy is his fill in.





Best present ever.

Like our leather couches, our marriage warranty is over.

After 1o years, I cannot give him back. 

I wouldn’t want to.

Each year, I’m thankful to have such a wonderful man who puts up with my crazy.

Except for that one year he refused to clip my toenails after I had back surgery.

But he did shave my legs.

And hosed me down like an elephant at the zoo in the shower.



That’s love.


Happy thanks for not smothering me with a pillow day Anniversary sweets xoxoxo


*Thank you for also being the muse in Clash Of The Couples…muwhahah* 



Linking up with these lovelies:


Lazy Weekends With Netflix

“I have a math test on…Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday,” he sang, “Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Friday! My test is on Friday!”

I shook my head in disbelief for a few reasons.

  1. He’s in grade one.
  2. It is the third week of September.

What in the world happened?

We’ve been on the go since September 2nd. We’ve been so busy that I kind of sort of neglected the state of my eyebrows and the calendar. Our weekends have become more “See these pyjamas? This is my Friday, Saturday, and Sunday attire” and less “Where are we going and what are we doing today?”

They are lazy.

Anticipated lazy.

Trading in pencils and books for toys and play dates and hockey and occasionally TV is necessary for adults and kids alike because All Work And No Play Makes Us All Go Something Something (like what I did there?). But that doesn’t mean that learning has to stop. Learning can be fun and silly especially with these new movie options on Netflix.

For the older kids, these movies help teach them the importance of finding their way in the world and doing the right thing.

netflix September


1. Dr. Seuss’ The Lorax
2. Ever After: A Cinderella Story
3. Glee
4. Radio
5. The Pursuit of Happyness
6. The Karate Kid

7. Turbo
8. Shrek

For the wee ones, keeping up with their ABC’s and 1,2,3’s will help them advance their knowledge beyond the classroom.

netflix september2

  1. Thomas & Friends: Thomas & His Friends Help Out
  2. Monster Math Squad
  3. Curious George
  4. Super Why!
  5. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
  6. Signing Time
  7. Animal ABCs
  8. LeapFrog: Numbers Ahoy

So what about you?

Do you keep your weekends lazy?

What kinds of shows to you let your kids watch on their days off?



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