I’m brutally hard on myself. I have deep and painful regrets, spanning my entire life. Some of them so painful I can’t bear to think of them.

I am constantly told, “Do not be so hard on yourself.”  This advice washes off of me without taking any real root in my psyche. If they were there for those moments, they’d say something different, if they’d speak to me at all. Some that have been hurt by me don’t.

Its hearbreaking to see how badly I’ve failed at some of the really important things. I’m often told what a great Dad I am, again, I don’t let that sink in. Some of my deepest regrets revolve around my failings as a Dad. God gave me two incredible children, I feel like a complete failure to them.  Broken home, anger, criticism and self focus over their needs. I suspect every parent might feel this way.

Vivid memories of my weakest and most selfish memories haunt me. It’s debilitating. There’s no reconciling these things for me. There was no justification or rationalizing it.  People that loved me, that looked up to and depended on me,  I let down.

It has made me wonder why we feel regret?  Where does it come from? In this world today we are so proud to say we have no regrets. How arrogant. We should all have a million. I know I do.

One expression I hate is “everything happens for a reason.” The hell it does. Unless by reason you mean it is the result of someone’s selfish and narcissistic behaviour. Everywhere I look I see self absorption, entitlement and Oselfishness. This includes what I see in the mirror. It seems we have all appointed ourselves gods, and our personal happiness is the only goal at all costs.

But it doesn’t work does it? The only times I’ve felt truly happy is when I’ve been completely broken. Only then was I able to see what’s important. Sometimes with some people the realization came too late and I lost them.

Regret is useful, feel the hell out of it, then try to be better. Never forget what you are capable of left to your own selfish nature. Beat the hell out of yourself if you want to, then rebuild. Learn from your awful behaviour and never do it again.

There are very simple and easy things I do now that lead to no regrets. They are never what you might expect. A long days work. Making a supper that isn’t inedible for my kids. Going for a walk with a sister that I have never made time for. Having breakfast with my brothers. Taking my daughter swimming, racing each other. Last time, as she swam her last 5 meters I knew she was about to beat my time. I was as happy as if I was watching Secretariat run his legendary race. This summer I was able to work beside my Son, often in extreme conditions doing filthy work and we loved it. Watching  my kids surpass me brings happiness. I’d like to get to a point where I feel this way about everyone. I’d like to be a small part of people’s path to success, not a contributing factor to their pain or demise, as I so often have been.

I never want to lose my regrets. For me they are scars, reminders if you will; Ones that came at a heavy price to myself and those that I love and loved. The purpose of pain is to send a signal from our brain to our body to stop doing something that is hurting us. In a way, this is how I see my regrets.

If you read this far thank you,

tris

 

 

 

I was born in Liverpool, but moved to Canada as an infant. I was the prototypical city kid, we rambled around Downtown Red Deer at will. Somewhere around the age of 8 my life changed forever. Part of this shift was due in part to my father finding religion.

Events had unfolded in his life that had connected him to Holdeman Mennonites. They would be between a Baptist and Amish in terms of lifestyle.  No radio, no tv, no dating, but individual homes and freedoms. Apart from this one year my memories are very positive and I will write about this more in other posts.

My Father felt that even though we were in a Christian School already in Red Deer,  we should attend the very small two roomed Mennonite school close to Stettler, Ab.

We had a family meeting planned, but before the meeting my dad pulled me aside and indicated he really wanted me to go. During our meeting when asked if I’d like to go I  knew I had no choice.

“Sure, I said” by this time I was already  fiercely independent and knew I could handle things on my own. Plus I had my two older sisters going as well. When the school term drew near, we packed up and went to board with a local farmer (Mennonite) and his wife and 2 children. My two older sisters were given a room, and I was to share a bed with the Farmers son. I felt completely abandoned.

I am almost certain this is where I learned to be defiant. Very defiant.  I was in trouble a lot. I can’t tell you what a shock it was to go from being a city kid to trying to be a farm kid. I sucked at it. I DID learn a work ethic that has served me well my entire life though.

I remember being warned about leaving a feed door open. So I continued to leave it open until I was strapped for it. I remember punching the farmers son in the face until he stopped bugging me. He was bigger and stronger but I had learned to not care. I remember being forced to wear a velvet vest, and throwing it in the garbage and telling the farmers wife who had made it for me I had misplaced it. I remember puking all over the farmers table, because he made me eat only  butter on my toast, I guess butter and Jam was wasteful. I did a lot wrong. And I don’t care to this day. No regrets.

But my greatest act of defiance (in my own mind) happened at school. I was in trouble a lot at school as well. This week I had had my mouth washed out with soap because I chewed pencils. I find this funny because I now see I have a oral fixation and I chew everything. I don’t do drugs or booze, I chew things and to this day I put my thumb in my mouth.

On this day, I had been strapped for destroying property. My property. I don’t have an attachment to things so I really never care if I break my stuff. Never have. The strap obviously never worked. This child (me) was spoiled long before the rod was used.

In this two room school they would ring a bell at the end of the day and we were to line up single file outside along a side walk. Then a subsequent bell would ring and we’d get to walk to a waiting bus; a van in this case.

Still fresh off of my latest strapping, I had the perfect plan. As the first bell rang I grabbed my lunch box and quickly got to the front of the line. I neatly set my box down on the sidewalk, just a foot or two off to the side. I then slowly drifted  to the back of the line. No one really noticed.

I waited with anticipation for the second bell to ring.

It rang…. I charged  from  the back, running with purpose towards my lunch pail and like a punter I planted a leg and put my entire body into booting my lunchpail across the parking lot.

It was beautiful. I’ll never forget it. That kit never had a chance, I can still see it arcing beautifully, one half going left, the other half going right, and the plastic thing to hold the thermos down going in another direction. I watched as the pieces hit the ground, then walked to my bus, and went to the back to sit down. I let the pieces sit where they had landed.

No one knew what to do. It’s not like they could strap me again. It was done. I had won. (In my own mind) I saw their bet and raised it. They folded.

My dad came to get me, I  don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see him. My dad was always the best when I messed up. I was given a week off, and then I returned. My sisters where there, if they hadn’t been you wouldn’t of got me back there.

My entire life I’ve been defiant. Often to my own detriment. I’ll stand up to anyone and everyone, and this isn’t always a good thing. But I will never regret THAT  day. If you never stand up for yourself, people will just keep knocking  you down.

If anyone got this far, thank you for reading.

Tris.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I once did something that a lot of people do when they are in love. I got a tattoo. She had drawn xo on my ribs, and I had it tattooed.

“Don’t worry buddy, everyone’s done it” the tattoo artist said today. “I once let my Ex GF actually tattoo me once.” For whatever reason his empathy made me feel more at ease.

Ive never regretted it. I should of known It wasn’t going to work out, because I remember the first time we decided to get tattoos. She had never had one and had decided to get Picasso’s dove done. I was to get her initials at the same time. But as I sat there it dawned on me, mine was personal, hers was not.

“Ummm, why am I getting your initials and you are getting a dove?” I asked.

“Oh don’t worry” she lied through her teeth “the dove has a fig leaf in it and it looks like a “T”.

I hesitantly glanced at the tattoo artist who was to inscribe my lying partners initials into my skin forever, he was looking at me slowly shaking his head. He was non verbally saying  what I knew, and I decided to give it a bit more thought. I told her I needed time because I wanted it perfect. This was also a lie, just to be fair.

The fig leaf looked nothing like a “T”.  Absolutely nothing.

But I did do the “XO” later, and she did a heart. It was a fun night in Forest Lawn and I don’t regret it.

But times change and a couple broken hearts later, it was something I wanted to remove from my body.  I was not her person anymore, and it just felt stupid on my ribs.

After the breakup, I felt incredibly lost. I took to jumping in my car and driving to random churches. One day after being advised by my son I went to a large Church in Calgary. I had always avoided these Churches. Too big, too commercial, always needing money. Didn’t Jesus sit on a Rock and teach? However I loved it instantly and kept going back. I no longer felt hopeless and alone. I believed what I was hearing, and I accepted it. I felt loved. Accepted.

Could Jesus be real? Did he love me? I choose to believe he did and does. For the first time in my life I took a communion. Since then I’ve failed a lot. But I never feel abandoned when I fail,  I feel like I have a purpose. My relationships are improving with those I love and while lonely at times I can say I am happy.

So today, I covered up my “XO” with the “Cross”. A love that will never end. My tattooes all are reminders for me. They are the things that matter to me. My kids names on my left arm (I’m left handed) An excerpt from the Kipling poem “IF” on my right. It’s a poem about what it means to be a man. Learning that Triumph  and Disaster are both imposters.

Perhaps today’s tattoo is the most important.  I want the Lord  to be my Shepard. I want to be a servant of the most high God. I’m his wayward son. He gave me my children and he created me,  I believe he died for me. I’m afraid to put this to print because I fail so much. I’m not scared to be mocked for my beliefs, I’m scared I’m an unworthy example.  It took me years and years to finally realize even though I fail and screw up I am still loved unconditionally. Not by a woman, but by Jesus. Rebel Jesus.

From an XO to the Cross.

Tris

 

 

 

 

 

 

My birthday is close. In a few days I’ll be 44. Sounds old, but I’m getting myself back in shape and I don’t feel my age.

That being said when I think of all the things I’ve experienced and gone through, I feel every second of those 44 years.

Some of my favourite memories around my birthday revolve around my childhood and family. I still have a quilt my Mum made for me when I was turning 8. She quilted on patches of all the things I loved at that time. A Rubix cube, airplane and a pair of hockey skates with a stick. Things I still love to this day.
Possibly my favourite birthday memory as a child was with my oldest brother Jason. I must’ve been 8. My neighbour had a bike that resembled a dirt bike. These were a coveted item in the early 80s. I wanted one so badly. We collected bottles from every drunk in downtown Red Deer together for a summer, saving every penny. I remember the trips up to Canadian tire buying parts with him. I can’t remember where I went, it was a summer camp of some kind, but I’ll never forget my return.  As we approached home I saw a bike sitting proudly on top of a car and Jason  holding it up like a trophy for me. He had taken all the parts, and used them to build me a motocross bike. The bike was beautiful. It was a blue 3 speed bike frame, with big shocks on the front and modified handle bars. It was perfect. To this day it is my favourite gift received.
In recent years since my divorce I’ve had many quiet Birthday dinners with my two kids. This year I’ll do the same. I recently renovated a kitchen for a chef who specializes in birthday cakes. I deliberately ordered a cake for 20, knowing it will be just us three. I think I did it for 2 reasons, to support her new business, and to pretend I was going to have all these people over to celebrate my birthday. This way I have the anticipation of an event without having to actually plan or do anything.
Delusional, I know.
My Mother was close to my age when she discovered she had cancer. I think of that a lot, It makes me grateful for the gift of time I’ve received. It seems like almost weekly I hear of someone I know passing away. My number could be called at anytime.

My prayer is I get to see my children have children, walk my grandson or granddaughter in a park, take them for breakfast and watch them play a sport they love.

I’m thankful, I’m lucky. I have a massive family, some amazing friends, and the two most important people in the world to me near and with me at all times. I love you deeply and for infinity Alastair and Brooklyn.

Happy Birthday to me.

Tris.

Over the years I’ve been encouraged to write. Anyone that really knows me well has suggested it. I have a wide array of interesting stories and experiences, like everyone else,  but perhaps people may enjoy them. Or possibly people sense that my mind is constantly spinning, and it would be in everyone’s best interest to put it to text, thus reducing the blah blah blah they need to hear. After all, it’s much easier to close a webpage than to sit through one of my scattered and rambling diatribes.

First, a bit about myself. I’m nearly 44. I have 2 children who I adore. I will likely speak about them a lot. I was married once,  for over a decade, have fallen in and out of love since. For the most part I struggle to connect with people on an intimate level. I’m hopeless in a relationship to date, but like everyone else I want to be loved. The tricky part is allowing it to happen or believing it to be true once it does. More on this in the blogs to come I’m sure,
but for everyone’s sake let’s hope not.
My father was a family physician, and I’m almost certain I inherited his mania but not his intelligence. My Mother passed away when I was 20. I have 4 brothers and 4 sisters. One sister died at birth, but I will always think of her as my little sister. There is no shortage of drama in my family, but I’m lucky to be a member of the Cottier clan.

I am recently out of a long term relationship. 6 years. I will write to help me heal from that, and hopefully I’ll make a few people laugh and make some friends along the way.

My blog will be very diverse, I highly doubt I could ever keep to a theme, but hopefully they will be interesting and I can get some enjoyment from it.

For today, I’m going to recount a story about my daughter Brooklyn. We were playing in the park last night, tossing a volleyball around and passing it to one another. If we missed, we’d run go get it. As I threw the ball to Brook, she missed it. It subsequently rolled down the hill. As she lazily took a few strides towards it I could tell she was non commitall about actually retrieving the ball.

“Hurry up” I yelled. This stopped her in her tracks, as if the prompt to move quicker was more than she could bear, forcing her to quit. Surprising since she was about 15 feet from the ball.

“Na” she yelled. “It was only 4 bucks we will get another one.”

My first thought was this. Those poor millenials running around saving the world, recycling, eating and doing all the “right” things. Gen Z is coming behind you and they will be messing it all up. I call it the Walmart effect. When it’s cheaper to buy a new coffeemaker, tv or what have you, than to buy a replacement part to fix said item, we have a problem. Our landfills are filled with valuable things. But what you will not see is a pink 4 dollar volleyball. That’s right, after yells from the top of the hill about privilege and entitlement Brook soldiered on for 15 more feet and heroically retrieved the ball. I damn near had tears in my eyes.

If anyone read this far, thank you. More to come. I’ll try to do one weekly.

T