April 2024
Unwritten Story
You are not the sum of your struggles. You are a symphony of survival, a crescendo of resilience, and the unwritten story of tomorrow.
You are not the sum of your struggles. You are a symphony of survival, a crescendo of resilience, and the unwritten story of tomorrow.
April 6, 2024
Those familiar with me know I invest extraordinary effort into everything I undertake. Surrender is not in my vocabulary; I persistently strive and maintain unwavering faith in myself. But what transpires when effort and conviction fall short?
My acquaintances also recognize my unwavering honesty, particularly about my emotions, which might be my Achilles’ heel. When I divulge my true feelings, I sense the retreat of many around me. The amusing Lindsay charms them; they mourn for Lindsay, who suffers.
I am in a profound pain. The uncertainty of my survival looms despite my relentless endeavours.
I’m lying in a hollow pit, a grave by any other name, but I hesitate to use the term for fear of distressing some. Faceless monsters loom above, shovelling dirt onto me. I thrash and strain, but with every movement, more dirt cascades down.
I walked 28 miles, 14 miles for each journey, to have two twenty-minute conversations, mainly in the rain alongside a highway with transport trucks speeding by, drenching me repeatedly.
With each step I took, I could hear my friend’s voice echoing in my ear, saying, “Tell him to get off his lazy ass and get a job.”
I trekked all that way for a mere forty minutes of dialogue. I fear my friends’ judgment so much that I’ve started to eat my emotions.
You call this eating your emotions?
I have to put my torment somewhere. I’m glad you are reading.
The conversations were promising, and it seemed inevitable a job offer would come—a job that would transform my life, binding me to work until my very end, with four hours of daily commuting on my lazy ass.
Three weeks of silence passed, shattering that certainty, until an email rekindled my hope. I confidently responded, confident that an offer would soon be forthcoming. Yet, it never arrived.
The faceless monsters keep shovelling soil over me.
Heartbroken, I try to connect with my family, for the first time in decades, but they seem disinterested. When I call, one of my brothers—uncles?—he doesn’t even bother to come to the phone.
I’m alienated once more.
I am an outsider to my family.
I need my friends.
Yet, many judge me harshly—I wish that wasn’t the case. Perhaps they fear I am in pain.
I cry every day.
I’m on the verge of having all my accounts suspended.
When a friend shared an inspirational quote with me, I thought, as a writer, I could craft my own.
I humorously inquired with my landlord if inspirational quotes could be exchanged for rent. The answer was a firm "No."
When my former employer dismissed me shortly before my sixtieth birthday, I was told it would be a death sentence.
Now, it seems that grim prediction may become reality.
I can’t afford to live.
I don’t want to become a burden.
Every night, I pretend to sleep while secretly hoping the monsters will complete their task.
I sought assistance from my previous employer, but he did not respond. I began to wonder, could he possibly be a relative of mine?
The night my first mother passed away, I sat beside her hospital bed for four hours, shattered, with tears streaming down my face. After those agonizing hours, she drew me near and whispered “Goodbye” into my ear.
The previous week, on a frigid December evening in Saskatoon, I faced the grim task of taking my mother back to the hospital as she endured excruciating pain. On the steps outside our home, we paused. Through eyes brimming with tears, she gazed at me and said, “I’m never going to come home again, am I?”
The day, after she said her final “Goodbye,” I coped by immersing myself in the company of friends. We had dinner at Earls, and I lingered out into the early morning hours, avoiding the inevitable emptiness of my home without a mother.
Upon my return, my sister Bernice, having just arrived from Calgary, was waiting in the kitchen.
It was there, in my childhood home, she embraced me for the first time, and then she told me Mum was gone. She’d hung out in the background of my life, playing the role of eldest sister. But the warmth was fleeting; soon after, she detached herself and stoically informed me I would need to seek alternate accommodations. The house had to be prepared for the relatives converging upon the city.
Sixteen years later (2003), I discovered the woman I had seen die, whom I believed to be my mother, wasn’t actually her; Bernice was my real mother.
Thirteen years later, in October 2016, I find myself shivering on a bone-chilling day in Calgary. I am here to visit Bernice in the hospital for the first time as her son. Our attempted conversation is filled with pain as Bernice, who is dying, expresses her anger.
As I leave, I embrace her for the second time, kiss her cheek, and apologize for the hardships she’s faced in life. I whisper, “I love you.”
As I exit the room, I cast a glance back. Tears flood Bernice’s eyes while she meets my gaze and utters in a fragile, cracking voice, “I’m never going to see you again, am I?”
Stepping into the hospital hallway, my legs give way, and I collapse.
One week later, Sadie—who was both my sister and aunt—informed me of Bernice’s death with a voice devoid of warmth.
The following day, Sadie’s voice on the phone had an urgent edge. “You may have to travel to Calgary to sign the death certificate, being Bernice’s sole surviving kin.”
Now, eight years on, no matter my efforts, I’ve come to accept that salvation will not come while the demons continue to heap dirt upon me.
The weight suffocates me.
I refuse to be a burden, yet I also lack a family.
I’m left with no one to bid farewell to.
Facing replacement just as I am neared sixty seemed akin to a death sentence.
Still, I persist.
The reason, however, eludes me.
Nightly, as I lie awake in agony, I beg the indifferent ceiling for a miracle.
Hugs + Love
Lindsay
Those familiar with me know I invest extraordinary effort into everything I undertake. Surrender is not in my vocabulary; I persistently strive and maintain unwavering faith in myself. But what transpires when effort and conviction fall short?
My acquaintances also recognize my unwavering honesty, particularly about my emotions, which might be my Achilles’ heel. When I divulge my true feelings, I sense the retreat of many around me. The amusing Lindsay charms them; they mourn for Lindsay, who suffers.
I am in a profound pain. The uncertainty of my survival looms despite my relentless endeavours.
I’m lying in a hollow pit, a grave by any other name, but I hesitate to use the term for fear of distressing some. Faceless monsters loom above, shovelling dirt onto me. I thrash and strain, but with every movement, more dirt cascades down.
I walked 28 miles, 14 miles for each journey, to have two twenty-minute conversations, mainly in the rain alongside a highway with transport trucks speeding by, drenching me repeatedly.
With each step I took, I could hear my friend’s voice echoing in my ear, saying, “Tell him to get off his lazy ass and get a job.”
I trekked all that way for a mere forty minutes of dialogue. I fear my friends’ judgment so much that I’ve started to eat my emotions.
You call this eating your emotions?
I have to put my torment somewhere. I’m glad you are reading.
The conversations were promising, and it seemed inevitable a job offer would come—a job that would transform my life, binding me to work until my very end, with four hours of daily commuting on my lazy ass.
Three weeks of silence passed, shattering that certainty, until an email rekindled my hope. I confidently responded, confident that an offer would soon be forthcoming. Yet, it never arrived.
The faceless monsters keep shovelling soil over me.
Heartbroken, I try to connect with my family, for the first time in decades, but they seem disinterested. When I call, one of my brothers—uncles?—he doesn’t even bother to come to the phone.
I’m alienated once more.
I am an outsider to my family.
I need my friends.
Yet, many judge me harshly—I wish that wasn’t the case. Perhaps they fear I am in pain.
I cry every day.
I’m on the verge of having all my accounts suspended.
When a friend shared an inspirational quote with me, I thought, as a writer, I could craft my own.
I humorously inquired with my landlord if inspirational quotes could be exchanged for rent. The answer was a firm "No."
When my former employer dismissed me shortly before my sixtieth birthday, I was told it would be a death sentence.
Now, it seems that grim prediction may become reality.
I can’t afford to live.
I don’t want to become a burden.
Every night, I pretend to sleep while secretly hoping the monsters will complete their task.
I sought assistance from my previous employer, but he did not respond. I began to wonder, could he possibly be a relative of mine?
The night my first mother passed away, I sat beside her hospital bed for four hours, shattered, with tears streaming down my face. After those agonizing hours, she drew me near and whispered “Goodbye” into my ear.
The previous week, on a frigid December evening in Saskatoon, I faced the grim task of taking my mother back to the hospital as she endured excruciating pain. On the steps outside our home, we paused. Through eyes brimming with tears, she gazed at me and said, “I’m never going to come home again, am I?”
The day, after she said her final “Goodbye,” I coped by immersing myself in the company of friends. We had dinner at Earls, and I lingered out into the early morning hours, avoiding the inevitable emptiness of my home without a mother.
Upon my return, my sister Bernice, having just arrived from Calgary, was waiting in the kitchen.
It was there, in my childhood home, she embraced me for the first time, and then she told me Mum was gone. She’d hung out in the background of my life, playing the role of eldest sister. But the warmth was fleeting; soon after, she detached herself and stoically informed me I would need to seek alternate accommodations. The house had to be prepared for the relatives converging upon the city.
Sixteen years later (2003), I discovered the woman I had seen die, whom I believed to be my mother, wasn’t actually her; Bernice was my real mother.
Thirteen years later, in October 2016, I find myself shivering on a bone-chilling day in Calgary. I am here to visit Bernice in the hospital for the first time as her son. Our attempted conversation is filled with pain as Bernice, who is dying, expresses her anger.
As I leave, I embrace her for the second time, kiss her cheek, and apologize for the hardships she’s faced in life. I whisper, “I love you.”
As I exit the room, I cast a glance back. Tears flood Bernice’s eyes while she meets my gaze and utters in a fragile, cracking voice, “I’m never going to see you again, am I?”
Stepping into the hospital hallway, my legs give way, and I collapse.
One week later, Sadie—who was both my sister and aunt—informed me of Bernice’s death with a voice devoid of warmth.
The following day, Sadie’s voice on the phone had an urgent edge. “You may have to travel to Calgary to sign the death certificate, being Bernice’s sole surviving kin.”
Now, eight years on, no matter my efforts, I’ve come to accept that salvation will not come while the demons continue to heap dirt upon me.
The weight suffocates me.
I refuse to be a burden, yet I also lack a family.
I’m left with no one to bid farewell to.
Facing replacement just as I am neared sixty seemed akin to a death sentence.
Still, I persist.
The reason, however, eludes me.
Nightly, as I lie awake in agony, I beg the indifferent ceiling for a miracle.
Hugs + Love
Lindsay
ONE WORD AT A TIME!
The Big Days
Statistics
2024 Totals
Dear Universe,
I have a few requests for 2024!
2024 Totals
Dear Universe,
I have a few requests for 2024!
April 2024
Steps Total = 2,824,441
Average Steps Per Day = 23,151
Miles Per Day = 11.89
Total Miles = 1,550.7.83
Seawall Laps = 278.96
Consecutive Days (Fitness Asylum) = 217
Days in the streak over 25,000 steps = 86
Resting Heart Rate = 36
Record Year: 2023
Steps Total = 8,141,057
Average Steps Per Month = 678,421
Average Steps Per Day = 22,304
Miles Per Day = 11.13
Total Miles = 3,997.69
Seawall Laps = 719.11
Record Month: July 2022
Steps Total = 1,243,230
Miles Total = 624.61
Record Day 2023: (November 2)
Steps = 42,077
Miles = 21.57
All-Time Record Day 2022 (July 19)
Steps = 50,572
Miles = 25.04
Steps since January 2020 = 29,943,670
Miles since January 2020 = 14,867.61 miles
Books Read (2024) = 21
Books Written (2024) = 4
Manuscripts Pitched = 1,000+
(i stopped counting)
Jobs Applied For = 1,000+
(i stopped counting)
Red = World Record
Average Steps Per Day = 23,151
Miles Per Day = 11.89
Total Miles = 1,550.7.83
Seawall Laps = 278.96
Consecutive Days (Fitness Asylum) = 217
Days in the streak over 25,000 steps = 86
Resting Heart Rate = 36
Record Year: 2023
Steps Total = 8,141,057
Average Steps Per Month = 678,421
Average Steps Per Day = 22,304
Miles Per Day = 11.13
Total Miles = 3,997.69
Seawall Laps = 719.11
Record Month: July 2022
Steps Total = 1,243,230
Miles Total = 624.61
Record Day 2023: (November 2)
Steps = 42,077
Miles = 21.57
All-Time Record Day 2022 (July 19)
Steps = 50,572
Miles = 25.04
Steps since January 2020 = 29,943,670
Miles since January 2020 = 14,867.61 miles
Books Read (2024) = 21
Books Written (2024) = 4
Manuscripts Pitched = 1,000+
(i stopped counting)
Jobs Applied For = 1,000+
(i stopped counting)
Red = World Record
|
THE MOVEMENT RECORD BOOK
| 1._movement_stats_-_april_2024.pdf |
April 1
You are not the sum of your struggles. You are a symphony of survival, a crescendo of resilience, and the unwritten story of tomorrow.
- Lindsay Wincherauk
- Lindsay Wincherauk
Flashback Monday
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web
April 8
A 2005 Honda was generously given to an elderly lady, and the media sensationalized their role in the story.
However, I view the situation differently. Well-meaning individuals gave a 72-year-old homeless woman their old vehicle, which triggered a moment of joy as she celebrated a newfound sense of security. Yet she remains without a home and is now burdened with additional responsibilities such as securing insurance, covering gas expenses, and dealing with the inevitable parking tickets. Ultimately, a tow truck hauls the car away, leaving her to spend her last days in the towing company's lot—an ending conceived for storytelling. 
Am I invisible?
What's the sound version of that? 
Flashback Monday
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
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April 22
Great people come to us, so even greater people can be possible.
Flashback Monday
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
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April 29
The last time Wincherauk applied for work, he said the internet didn’t exist.
“You’re right at age purgatory because for every menial [job] I’m overqualified for and everything that I’m qualified for, nobody’s going to [hire] somebody my age,” he said. “And it doesn’t matter how hard you try. If no door opens, what happens?” 
I suspect our collective digital obsession has dulled our ability to listen and empathize truly.
- from "Real Life" a work in progress. 
Flashback Monday
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
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