On Immigration


Last week I met with the local branch of Justice For Our Neighbors, a legal clinic that helps undocumented and other immigrants with their immigration process.

I’m applying for status under the Violence Against Women Act. I qualify for this pathway because of how I ended up undocumented in this country to begin with. It’s a long, messy story.

I haven’t heard back yet if they’re going to take my case or not. In the meantime, I’ve been forcing myself to write out my affidavit.

I ended up in the US after flying to New Mexico for what I thought was my honeymoon. My husband and I were planning on visiting his parents, then road tripping back to Toronto. That’s not what happened though. He kept delaying our return until out of fear of becoming undocumented, I finally agreed to stay in the US. He took my passport, the immigration paperwork I had downloaded from the internet and filled out, and the money for the fees and never filed. I don’t know what he did with it all.

Years later, when the abuse was evident, I tried to leave. He told me if I did, he would call the police, and I would be arrested immediately and deported, and I would lose my kids. He told me he never filed the immigration paperwork.

I stayed. I kept hoping I could convince him to go back to Toronto with me. I thought if I could be a better wife, then he wouldn’t hurt me anymore.

Part of the VAWA application for status involves breaking down in detail the abuse that happened in my marriage. It’s a messy and triggering affair, and I have yet to sit down for a writing session without being hit with all the emotional ups and downs that come with talking about it. Even now, four years removed from my husband, I still find myself caught in the gaslighting and the anxiety. Could it be my fault? Did I make him hit me?

Logically, I know better. I know from working with other domestic violence survivors that we all have these feelings, and that they never really fully go away for some of us. They’re there, in the back of our minds, reminding us that we’re never going to be fully free, that everything is our fault, even when it isn’t.

One of the biggest obstacles to healing from domestic violence is learning to love yourself again. Learning to trust your gut, to have faith in your abilities. That asking for help to achieve your goals, and protect your autonomy doesn’t make you incapable or weak. In fact, it makes you stronger.

So here I am, looking at the fear I left behind, and comparing it to the love I have ahead of me. I need to keep reminding myself that things are better now, and they’re going to be even better once I get my immigration sorted.

I’m surrounded by people who love me. Despite my husband’s best attempts to convince me otherwise, I am lovable, and loved. I am not useless, I am not worthless, I contribute to my community. My kindness isn’t a lack of intelligence, it’s a willful choice to see the best in people, and to want to do the best for my community. And letting my community support me through this process doesn’t make me a terrible person. It just means I’m welcome, and I’m not alone.

If you would like to contribute to the fundraiser my community put together for me, you can do so here.

I Love You

Hey. Hey you.

Over there.

I don’t know you. Not personally. We’ve never met. But I love you. I love the way you move through this world, trying your best. I love the way you wake up every morning, even when it’s hard. I love you when you drag yourself out of bed and move forward with your day. I love you when you can’t do it today, and stay in bed and sleep. I love you with your hair done, and I love you even when you pick cheese balls out of your tangles.

I love you when you’re crying, smiling, laughing, or sobbing.

I love you, even when your monsters are winning.

I love you, even when it’s hard, even when you don’t love yourself. I love you without condition, without fail. I love you even if I walk away from you. I love you for you, for all your good and your less-good. I love you when you’re angry, when you’re scared. I love you.

On Community

I’ve had a pretty rough couple of weeks lately. Things have been exceptionally difficult with expense after expense piling up, friendships ending, responsibilities overtaking me, and the loss of both a foster cat, and one of my pets.

It’s been overwhelming, but I’ve been okay. My community has stepped in to back me up wherever it can.

My friend Malorie has been helping me pick my youngest, Bug, up from school. Andy leaves work on his lunch break to drive Bug to his preschool class, and makes sure I have a key to his house so I can find somewhere quiet to catch up on work. Nathan makes me a lunch and leaves it in the fridge so I don’t have to spend time making my own. Mara drove an hour with her father in law to help me take care of some roommate business. Julia went and picked up my cat’s ashes so that I wouldn’t have to.

Multiple friends send me reassuring messages and reminders to eat and stay hydrated throughout the day.

I haven’t had community for most of my life, and having one now is a genuine feeling of ease and comfort. I don’t have to worry as much. I can help my friends, and they can help me. We weren’t built to live solitary lives, we were built to love, and to work and fight together to survive.

We can’t survive without a community, and the single most powerful act of compassion we have at our disposal is our willingness to risk everything to keep each other afloat. In a society where we often find ourselves subjugated, alone, and struggling, our most powerful tool is our willingness to love each other.

Share The Love (Even With Yourself)

I spend a lot of time worrying if I’m kind enough. I always want to be the person who responds to a situation with compassion and empathy. And sometimes that backfires. Sometimes people take advantage of that empathy and compassion.

One of the hardest things I’ve had to learn is to share that empathy and compassion with myself. It’s so easy to blame myself when people do things that hurt me. I desperately want to believe that we all get what we deserve, and that my actions towards others are always fair and reasonable, but that’s rarely how it works. Our decisions and perceptions are often colored by the various experiences we’ve had with our lives. Those of us who experience mental illness or trauma may see attacks where there aren’t any, or try desperately to help people whose actions intentionally or unintentionally hurt us, with no regard to our own mental health.

When people are hurting us, it’s okay to say no and to walk away. It doesn’t mean we’ve failed. It means that we’re not the best person to help them right now. It means that as much as we love the other person, we also love ourselves, and we deserve to be treated with kindness.

I can’t fix people. I can lead them to resources to help them help themselves, but I can’t do the work for them. I have a responsibility to myself to treat me with the love and kindness I want to give other people. That’s easy to forget sometimes.

On Hopepunk

We live in a world where many of us struggle every day. We struggle to be heard, to be valued, to survive in a universe that seems set on making our lives as difficult as possible.

Some of us are struggling to pay the bills, to eat, to raise kids on our own. It’s hard and the world seems so full of pain.

Sometimes, even acts of kindness end up feeling like chaotic nightmares. There’s no such thing as perfect victims, and that’s never more apparent than when you’re bailing someone out of an abusive situation, only to have them turn on you in a misguided effort to keep themselves safe.

Even in cat rescue, there are weeks when you feel like there’s no hope. Like you can’t handle one more dying kitten, one more abused cat. Like there’s so many sad moments, and not enough wins.

Those are the moments when finding a sliver of hope in a vast, cold expanse of suffering feels impossible. These are the moments when it’s the most important to keep going. To keep fighting, to keep acting with kindness and love, even when it blows up in your face, even when you’re scared and hurt and afraid. Even when you’re not sure you can afford to hope anymore.

You are at your most punk when you’re creating that hope. Keep fighting. Keep breathing, keep going. The world is a better place with you in it, standing there, holding the line with your beautiful self.

You matter, and I love you.