Even though I’ve spent a good deal of my lifetime DEATHLY afraid of needles, almost exactly four years ago, I walked into a tattoo shop in Osbourne Village, Winnipeg, and ON PURPOSE (and without drugs or alcohol of ANY kind) got a spontaneous tattoo from a gent named Cameron, who just happened to be one of the toughest looking humans I’d ever had the good luck to see.
I have to say, I still really get a rise out of the fact that a man who was sporting a leather vest with a biker patch on the back, stalking the world in a beat-up pair of heavy shit kicking boots, was named Cameron.
Cameron was a super lovely guy, which I point out because one (me, I mean me too) should not judge a book…or believe that armour defines a human…or think that leather and shit kickers are evil or bad.
Cameron, who very kindly, and with as little pain as he could manage, gave my very first tattoo.
I actually couldn’t even believe I got it, AS I WAS FUCKING GETTING IT!

SIDEBAR: I’ve had a very tumultuous time with my sensitive skin since the day I was born, so I’d vowed to NEVER get a tattoo. Getting something scarred into my skin seemed like adding insult to injury, quite frankly.
END OF SIDEBAR

But after just over 50 years, I wanted a tattoo, and then? I sure went out, and got one.

Vow broken.
Well…vows, am I right?

Oh, and saying that it was “spontaneous” implies that I hadn’t been pondering it for months…which I had… “spontaneous” also means that I didn’t do any research on the shop, and that I didn’t pick an artist after long and careful consideration.
I simply saw the tattoo shop, walked in and hoped for the best.

DISCLAIMER: THIS is not something I recommend…but I’m glad I did it, and I would never do it that way, again.

Life is funny, right? So very many contradictions.
After I got that tattoo, I could NOT stop looking at it.
My gaze would wander to it as I drove for three days, from Winnipeg to Toronto.  Eyes sliding back and forth from the road, towards where my tattoo now lived, on the inside of my left forearm.
Before you comment, I would like to confirm that I drove safely, people.
That one word tattoo has helped me remember who-the-fuck-I-am on at least 1,000,000,0000 shitty, stressful and/or anxious occasions…yes, it helped me through some shit sandwiches, let me tell you what.

INVINCIBLE.

If you didn’t know already, it says INVINCIBLE.
Cameron googled the word six times to make sure it was spelled right, and I will thank him for that, forever. #invincalbe #invisable #invisible

A few months later, in the middle of shooting season three of Frankie Drake Mysteries, I was surprised to find myself suddenly itchy with the oft spoken about addiction that occurs after your first tattoo.
You just want more.
More, more, and more ink, please.
I decided that I was going to add something to that first tattoo, maybe a beautiful flower of some description.
I was sitting in the make up trailer chair, telling my friend and FRANKIE make up artist, Rachel, about my flower idea, and her face blanched in the smallest of ways…hand hovering for a split second over that very tattoo, as she covered it with make up…because my character, Flo, did not have tattoos.
If I’d not been working with Rachel for two years already?…I may not have seen her reaction at all.
Her knee-jerk pause was NOT about the idea, mind…but the coverage.
Tattoos really DO take a bit of time to mask for camera, and then they have to be maintained all the rest of the day, on set.
And when you are a gal who is core temperature Whitney Houston at all times, that can be a challenge.
Yes, I sweat like the devil, I’m not ashamed to admit it. Not all the time, but sets are usually hot as eff.
AND as we all know, the iconic legend WH could also sweat, god rest her, so my glands were in good company.
So, I waited.
…Just long enough to wrap season three…but give me a LITTLE credit…I waited till we were done the season, people (I had to).
When the shoot was over, you guys, I just couldn’t help fucking myself.
BUT I did my research this time, asked for recommendations, and found a tattoo artist that I really liked, here in Toronto.
Then without telling even one person, I went and got another.
I’m a bit of a sharer (see this collection of essays on HOW VERY DARE SHE), so it was strange to not tell anyone, and it wasn’t a decision, I just…well, I just kept it to myself.
The action/idea was mine and not something for anyone else to have an opinion on.
This sense-of-mine held a very singular kind of joy that I’d never experienced before.

After the tattoo was complete, I drove home, smiling all the way, musing that it was about time to be the captain of my own life.
The keeper of my own wants and needs.
The decider of my future.
The protector of my heart and spirit.
The builder of boundaries.
What you see as a tattoo, was actually the second instalment in a statement of my intention to be in charge of life.
It was…it was amazing.
It was…empowering.
It was…on the inside of my arm, right beside my underarm…so, it really hurt BUT I still loved it.
I loved it even more than the first one.
A little pain reminds you of the transformation, right?

And then, just like that (SATC reference, judge at will), I had TWO tattoos…after having none-many tattoos my whole life.
Why had I waited so long?
Oh ya…the theatre.
As mentioned, it’s a bit of pain in the ass to cover tattoos when you are on set WITH A MAKE UP ARTIST on hand to do the hard work, but to have to do it all by yourself, eight sweaty-ass shows a week?
No sir/ma’am/everyone.
Also, getting a tattoo is like the uber (not the drive share company) version of dramatically changing your hair colour right AFTER you get your acting head shots done.
AND you NEVER change your hair colour after you get your head shots done…not to mention you probably should not DRAMATICALLY (irony) change your hair at all, if you are trying to be considered for ALL the roles (stage, TV and film).
Actors are enouraged to keep their look fairly neutral.
But I was 51 when I got my second tattoo.
So fuck it.
Just…fucking, fuck it.
I mean, I’m not getting a skull and crossbones on my face anytime soon, but it’s nice to let go of lifelong rules.

Tattoos, solo travels, kayaks…jesus, when, oh when did I stop being so afraid all the time?
And I have INDEED STOPPED being so afraid all of the time.
And yes, for a big part of my life, I WAS afraid all the time…it may not have looked like it, but I was.
I’ve carried a myriad of fears along with me, like a backpack of angry, wet cats, for my whole live long life…so long, that I almost didn’t know they were things I could get rid of.
AND when I began to work on myself, on my life, on my self care, they started the great-fear-departure without me noticing at first, one by one, leaving my spirit and gut without a word of goodbye.
The exit of these various fears wasn’t announced by a parade, a sky writer, marching band or even a carefully worded email.
On any given day, I might simply find myself looking around at a situation that would have once terrified me, and feel myself unafraid.
It’s…it’s a wonder.

For instance, my almost lifelong fear of needles caused me to pass out about ten times, over a span of 15 years…like flat on the ground, pass out.
When I was around 25, I talked about this fear with a nurse friend, and she advised me to instruct the healthcare professionals that were drawing my blood, that I needed to lie down…EVERYTIME…and to settle for no less than a horizontal position when in the presence of needles.

She: They will thank you, when they don’t have to mop you up off the floor, a situation that would possibly involve stitches and scars, Shar.

She was so right.
It was fairly glorious to sit in a doctor’s office, finally state my need and be minded without a fuss.
After the first time, I stated that need EVERY time I went for a needle, prouder and prouder of myself each visit.
Then, one day, about three years ago, I had to get some blood taken, and there was no table to lie on…so, I sat and I was fine.
Like really fine.
Like, I laughed through it, kind-of fine.
I will still lie down, when the option is available, because who doesn’t like to have a lie down…but I’m not afraid anymore.

I used to be very afraid of being alone in the dark.
From as far back as I can remember, I had nightmares, and felt like I wasn’t safe in the dark.
After I became single again, I frustratingly found myself fighting my fear of the dark when I was alone in my house at night, which I was most of the time.
Actually, I mostly conquered my fear of being alone there, by the time I sold my house, last year.
AND right now, I’m sitting at a picnic table, in a provincial park, in the pitch dark except for a fairly spooky fire I built burning beside me, lit by the glow of this IPAD, alone and I am not afraid…at all.
The first time I tried this, two years ago, I was terrified.
That one night I camped out solo for the first time,I barely slept a wink.
Two years later, and just moments ago, I sat up straight and thought

Me: Holy shit, I’m not afraid at all.

Not even a little.
And yes, it was a few minutes ago.
Yes, yes, I did JUST realize this change, a few minutes ago.
I laughed out loud at this discovery, and heard my laughter ring back in the trees around me.
I’m thrilled that my response to my lack of fear…is laughter…is joy.
Make no mistake, I keep myself safe out here…but I’m not afraid to inhabit darkness alone, anymore.
Say that again, Sharron.

I’M NOT AFRAID TO INHABIT DARKNESS ALONE, ANYMORE.

It really seems to me that the big changes in your life, the deep changes, mostly happen while you’re not looking or paying attention.
No one else will tell you change has happened, you have to figure it out for yourself.
Again, no parade, just change.
An absence of fear…appreciation of simple joys…days without worry…then weeks without worry…love that is just love…the automatic setting of boundaries…a voice that speaks up for itself, without prompting…the lack of a need for validation…change abounds, quietly.

So, you might be asking, what am I doing in the forest alone?
Well, I bought myself a new tent, air mattress, head lamp, and cooking apparatus for a big trip I’m planning next month.
I’m driving to Vancouver Island.
From Toronto.
For two thirds of this trip, I will be on my own.
I’ve been mulling over the possibility of this adventure for a few months, and have said nothing to anyone, except Ari, who I will be doing the first leg with…Toronto to Winnipeg.

Ari and I were on FaceTime one night, and I casually said,

Me: I think I might like to drive back with you to Winnipeg, after your trip to Toronto is done…and then continue on to BC…would you like company?

He: BOO!! That’s a great idea.

Then my secret plans for myself became real…and that joy I’d had when I drove away from getting my second tattoo surfaced again, and I felt light…almost euphoric.
This feeling is a bit of a drug, I have to say.

I want to do something epic to celebrate my 53rd birthday.
53 might seem like a weird number to epically celebrate, but it’s not.
Most people would have done something like this to celebrate their 50th…but that year was a celebratory write off for me.
There were actually A LOT of things that happened during my 50th year that were celebration worthy…jobs, awards, nominations, big changes…that just passed by and were, sometimes oddly endured.
I try not to regret things that have passed…but I do mourn how dark that year was…and now that I’m lighter (and should the dark appear, I remind myself that I’m not afraid to go into it alone, as previously mentioned), I’m going to do 53, right.
I’m going to do something I’ve wanted to do my whole life.
I want to drive west, across the country, in my own car, which will carry my bike, kayak, tent, and camp stove.
I will be fueled by my very own steam and choices, seeing everything past Winnipeg (a place I have already driven to alone…hence the tattoo VIA Cameron) on my own.
AND I’m almost not afraid of the greatness and grandness of it all.
Almost.
Let’s just be honest…I’m a bit excited/anxious about it, and some days it’s hard to tell the difference.
Since I finally stated my intention to do this trip, to Ari and my agent (even turned down a gig for it), I’ve worked the details of this journey over in my mind.
So many decisions to make, so much research to do on places that I might like to see…and at the same time, I kinda just want to let the wind take me where it may.
THAT really is my dream…that has always been my dream…to just go where I want, when I want, for as long as I want…and paddle, peddle or simply sit on rocks and look at the view.
The fucking freedom.
Great. Grand. And almost not totally afraid.
And by the time I leave, I will be a fresh 53 years old.

Last week, when I logged into the Facebook to poke around a bit ( I don’t go on there very much anymore, which is a sanity saver), a one year old memory popped up about me selling my house.
As I looked at the post, the whole experience of deciding to sell, getting the house ready to sell, putting it on the market, and then it’s eventual sale, came rushing back to me.
It was exactly a year ago.
During a fucking pandemic.
Without blinking, I sold a house that I fought to keep, a house that at one point, I thought I LOVED SO MUCH, that I wanted to die in it.
Now, as I actually rolled that wish over in my head, I cannot believe how sad that thought was….planning to die somewhere…instead of deciding to live EVERYWHERE.
I sit up beside my spooky fire, in the pitch dark, in the forest, and realize that I’m NOW unafraid to live, and way more opposed to death.
Again, no band, no note, no fucking trumpet…just change.
If I had to pinpoint the exact moment when I my life really started to turn, when the list of my overcome-fears really began to grow, it would be the moment I decided to sell my home.

This is what I wrote last year about the experience and posted it on the FACEBOOK.

Sept 5th, 2020
Day 176 of the Pandemic.

I wrote this for myself…but then?
Life is for living and writing is to be read.
I hope you have a wonderful holiday weekend.
I am busy letting go. : )
It feels…everything.

THE MIRROR

Uh huh.
I sold my house.
For anyone following along, you know that this house has been a two year purge.
My ex left behind EVERYTHING that was our marriage for ME to sort through, haul to the garbage dump (24 trips), burn or (to keep my karma) take in a box across the street to my neighbour that still communicates with him.
I have spent over two years dealing with the aftermath and fallout of a marriage I should have left…AND actually tried to leave more than once…years ago.
I know…life, right?
Everything is clearer when it’s a story.

People tell you to move on.
Yes, I have written about this topic before…a lot.
People, not all people mind, but some people get uncomfortable when you talk about the journey, obviously wishing that you would move on and talk about things that are not so real or personal.
Or stark.
Or angry.
Or true.
People want you to move on, they do.
Me? I want…I need…to walk, drive, ride and run through it…so I can live a better life at the end of the tunnel, knowing I felt it all.
AND I have gone through those tunnels, to be honest, a number of times.

SPOILER: THERE ARE A BUNCH OF WINDY TUNNELS IN THIS JOURNEY, Y’ALL.

About a month ago, I was sitting on the couch looking out the back window.
For the few weeks beforehand, I’d found myself wishing that this house was in the city, OR on the water and as I stared out at the sky and the trees I suddenly thought, “I could sell this house.”
It was like a bolt of lightening and a pin prick at the same time.

I could sell this house that I fought so hard for.
I could sell this house that I have spent the summer cleaning out, moving stuff around in, and planting trees and flowers all around.
I could sell this house that I have made my own home.
Sharron’s home.

Huh.

I could sell my home.
My adrenaline started to pump.
Wait.
Yes.
I could pick my OWN home.
Suddenly, I desperately wanted my own fresh start.
I could fill my home, my own fresh start, with my things, with new things, with beloved old things, with fresh paint, with inspiration, hope and joy.
Okay, I WANT my OWN fresh start.

You know what?
I made a home of the place where I was the most lonely in my marriage.
I did that.
I made a home in the apartment where my ex husband told me he had MET someone…where a week later I then told my ex husband that I discovered that he had cheated on me for two years.
I made a home there, as well.
I did that too.
Yes, I did.
The choice I had at that very fragile time, was to make the very best of that apartment till I could make different choices, or to live in disharmony.
I chose the first…I chose the search for harmony.
And let me tell you WHAT, it wasn’t a fucking picnic by any means…but I did.
Don’t let anyone tell you how, or when, or why you should move, or move on…and they WILL tell you.
You live your own truth.
You take your own time.
Unashamed.
And now? I will sell this house.
Dave and Tim’s rule of real estate: DON’T BLINK.
Dave and Tim’s second rule of real estate: DON’T LOVE SOMETHING THAT CANNOT LOVE YOU BACK.

So, yes, the aforementioned Dave and Tim are my real estate Gurus.
If you know them, you know, if you don’t? Picture two, young forever (they really are aging like the product of a Dorian Gray painting), kind, handsome men who can make a stellar cheese board at a moment’s notice, whip up an amazing display in their store in no time flat, and kill the competition at a stock auction…among MANY other things.
Two weeks ago, I sat with them in front of the lake that their house is on, eating granola and talking about what I should do here, in my specific situation.
My own fresh start…maybe in a year or so, when the pandemic wasn’t so…pandemic-ie.
While I have my own ideas about what I want to do…they have bought and sold numerous properties and have the knowledge to share…if you are lucky enough to know them. (if you don’t, please don’t bother them…they have shit to do).
They told me I could do this move now.
Now?
I was excited but…but still a bit reticent to actually pull the trigger.

Dave: Why are you staying in Stratford?

Me: Oh, well, yeah…I really like my house.

Tim: Didn’t you really like your condo that you had before the house?

Me (pauses): I DID, I really liked that place, too.

Dave: Didn’t you really like your first house?

Me: God, yes, I though I was going to die there…I wanted to stay forever.
(Why did I forever want to die places?)

Dave and Tim, in no particular order, are attributed to the next comment: Doesn’t it stand to reason that it’s YOU and not the house?

Spoiler #2: I sold the house.

Now, I am almost done here.
I can see the actual end of this place for me.
I’m ready to make another move.
I’m ready to let more of the ghosts go to the grave, with the billions of other ghosts from marriages ended.
While this house is really gorgeous, while I’m a single gal who made this house her own…it still holds my marriage in some ways.
How could it not?
I want MY OWN fresh start.
I don’t want the burnt toast, the last broken ass pop tart, or the crumbs at the bottom of a cracker box (I don’t know why this is about food…but I am going with it, people).
While I really like this house?…I want my own new box of Cheerios, bitch.

So, the house closes in what seems like ten minutes.
I start working on season four of Frankie next week.
I have a plan to get out of this house in the calmest way I can figure…and to do that? I want to sell a bunch of stuff.
So, I naively posted about twenty five items on line to sell…all at the same time…suddenly, it was like I became a bookie, the way I was fielding texts, accepting payment, taking tables to the door, hauling chairs to the porch, helping friends figure out how to put the bike rack on their car, asking people if they minded if I kept the stuff till next weekend so it didn’t seem too weird in here.

The last thing I handed off last night was a mirror that I, that we, got as a wedding gift.
I sold it for $40 to someone who I know will dig it.
I took it off the wall and stood it outside on the porch, waiting for them to pick it up.
When I came back in there was a ghost of it on the wall where it had hung for almost 10 years…and as I looked at the shadow on the wall, I knew in my heart and soul that this is the REAL end of something.
For me.
Just for me.
This is my exit.
With concerted effort, I’m letting no one else claim it, BUT me.
And I’m feeling it.
I’m moving.
I’m taking a very big leap.
And I’m really digging it, you guys.

It does not mean that leaving won’t be weird, hard, awesome and emotional.
That is actually the part that I will really dig.
You have to go through the tunnels, people.
And sometimes you’re happily driving on the road for a very long time, before you see another fucking tunnel, and when you do, you sigh, you grip the wheel, turn on your lights, and start the journey…but there is ALWAYS the other side.
Always.

People ask me over and over again why I share so much on here.
And I will say again, that I continue to do it because I get so many messages…and texts…and notes of solidarity from people who, like me, are just trying to figure it all out.
Figure out how to thrive after a fall….thrive and not just survive.
That’s why.
I’m telling my own story…the story I am rightly entitled to.
The story that a special group of people share.
No one wants to be in this club…but in the club we are.
And it is not a club to be embarrassed about.
We are not the left behind…oh no…if we choose it, we take the space to thrive…one of the options is to live our very best life…we are then left to realize WE should have left long, long, long ago.

And we get to be happy, successful, joyous and live in abundance.
We get to fall in love.
We get to be naked with other humans that we want to be naked with.
We get to travel around the world (one day, when this shit show is over)
We get to start businesses, and projects.
WE get to create and inovate.
WE get to tell our story.
We get to be the best version of ourselves.
WE get to be happy.

We do.
We just fucking do.
We get to be happy.

Namaste. S.M. September 5th, 2020.
………………………………………………………………………

I love reading that back. I’d not realized I was that frank.
Unafraid.
See? Change is quiet as fuck.

So, last Friday, I went back to my favourite tattoo artist MIA, and got another tattoo. It’s based on a Tom Thompson painting.
And it hurt.
And she held onto my foot like it had the cure for cancer in it.
And when it hurt really bad…I laughed. Ask Mia…I really did.

So, great, right? All Mia’s info is in my INSTAGRAM feed, it you want it, should you want a tattoo. : )

 

So good, right.

Last Friday night, after I looked at the tattoo for a good long time, I went to my desk, took out a recipe card and I wrote two words down, and put those TWO WORDS on the fridge…and those two words are

TRUST YOURSELF.

It’s nutty, but we have to remind ourselves on the regular, that we’ve got this.
Remind ourselves that we are a really good bet to save ourselves in any situation.
Look how well we’ve done so far…are we alive? Then we are successful.
Be less afraid, and trust yourself, Sharron. Or feel the fear, and trust yourself, Sharron. Or if you are really  afraid? And ask for help. That is also trusting yourself.

Also, I will be totally honest, sometimes I will still feel fear…I’m only human, after all, and I will either do whatever that scary thing is anyway OR I won’t…and that’s just fine, too.
It’s taken me a lifetime to figure that out, as well…and I’m still working on it.

To that end, I bought my own inflatable kayak.
It wasn’t something I dreamed of getting, but, just a couple of months ago, it suddenly became something I wanted…even though that kind of personal responsibility scared me some.
To be in charge of myself on the water, seemed like a next level learning experience.
The first day I blew it up, got in it without falling into the water, and pushed away from shore, I felt…that euphoria. I laughed like a fucking kid and felt a body rush like almost no other…it was actually more than that euphoria…it was freedom.
But I was also tense a lot of the time, those first few journeys.
I had to consciously relax my body…tell myself to let go…to breathe…to trust myself.
Last month, three glorious days in a row, I took that same kayak around Dave and Tim’s lake, paddling longer and longer times, each day, going farther and farther from home base, as it were.
After each day was done, I sat on their dock at sunset, watching kayakers go by, learning from their techniques, and employing them the next day…my tense, anxious body relaxing more and more each trip.
The final day, before I packed up to go home, I went around the lake and saw couples sitting on their docks and staring out at the water…and after years of thinking my next step was a cottage, I had the realization (so many realizations, yes?) that I wanted to paddle on ALL the water, not just one lake…and to figure that out?
I needed my blow up kayak.
It helped me see the world, and my own inner world, from a different perspective.

This is what my second tattoo, that I got from Mia two years ago, says:

In the end, she became more than what she expected. She became the journey, and like all journeys, she did not end, she just simply changed directions and kept going.

Namaste, humans.

S.M – Earl Rowe Provincial Park, Alliston, ON.
September 12th, 2021

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