Friends III

I worked at Airmiles for years, then at a law firm for a few, and then I created a small business doing semi-permanent eyelash extensions in March 2009.

When I started doing lashes, I primarily connected with the girls at Blair’s events when I would go. Outside of Molly, Natalie, and very few others, the company Blair kept was not my company. I was uncomfortable, lots of people from the past. I had moved on—I didn’t live in the past anymore.

I never forgot who I was or where I came from, though I’d been accused of that a time or two. I always looked at life as: it’s not where you come from—it’s where you’re at. And I’m allowed to think and feel like that!

I was busy with a small, blooming business. I had advanced in life. I was occupied with my small business, and I was making new friends—not to mention connecting with my brother, my father’s son, and entering into his world and people. Him and I connecting was a big deal! We had mutual friends—bartenders and servers—who were also taken aback by the fact that we were brother and sister and how it all went down. Greg and I had been wandering the very same hood/streets for years, and we never knew each other. Greg and some of his friends became my friends, one of them was Clara. That was a whole other era for me that lasted 10 years.

Natalie was living her life successfully. She held an important position with Indigenous Affairs. She was a good mother of five children, and she was also a grandmother of many. Natalie was very soft-spoken, kind, and empathetic. She listened and gave good advice. I considered her to be a good friend—after 30 years, I can truly say we never had a rift.

Molly was doing her thing—decorating—that was always her thing, and she was rather good at it. We hooked up a few times at her place over the years. There was even a time I reached out to Molly solely. I was a year or two into lashes when something came over me—it was my past.

My life had changed again, and it was going quite well, but the dirty deeds from the past and the new people I was around had me questioning my identity. The new people didn’t know me to have done or been through what I’d been through, and I desperately needed a connection. I needed Molly.

I called on her, crying, having a moment and she came. We met up at the Dragon on Kingston Rd. I was explaining to her how I felt—it was remorse. She consoled me, hugged me, and just being around her made me feel better.

The next time I saw her and Natalie was at one of Blair’s events. I didn’t go to many of her events—maybe a handful—because I straight-up wasn’t comfortable. I loved, loved seeing the girls. That’s where they were, so that’s where I went.

I walked in, hugged everyone, and said hello. Within five minutes, someone showed me a picture of Blair’s stomach, all stapled together from the groin straight up, and basically said to me, “Where the fuck were you!?”

I was like, “Huh?! What the fuck? What the fuck happened? Oh my God!”

Before anyone told me what happened, I was accused of knowing and ignoring. I knew she had Crohn’s, but the situation became severe—she needed emergency surgery. And I had no fucking clue! People were walking around shaking their heads at me as if to say, shame on you!

I knew she had Crohn’s and multiple other health issues. Being a crack addict for 20+ years did some serious damage to her body—she realized once she got clean that if it wasn’t one thing, it was another. It was sad and hard to watch. Her addiction, as well as her choices in life, affected a lot more than just herself.

Blair became obsessed with Facebook and having an audience. In my opinion, it was out of control. Blair had multiple health issues, and it was all posted on Facebook—every single thing.

An IV in her hand? Sad look on her face. Blood being drawn? Sad look on her face. IV infusion? Sad look on her face.

It was fucking sad, and I couldn’t take looking at it anymore. I mean, who does that? It was too much for me. It started to affect my own mental health, so I put her on ‘hide’—had to.

Every time I logged on, it was another sad, sobbing post. Not healthy, again, in my opinion—not healthy for her or her audience.

So, she had that surgery, and I was accused of being a shit friend, meanwhile I had no fucking clue! Nobody called me, texted me, or said anything to me about anything until that day.

You know what everyone said?—“You knew! It was all over Facebook, of course you knew!” I was like, What the fuck, did this bitch set a trap for me?! Because that’s what it felt like! Her man, her, and Molly all in my face. I cried. I was sad for her and sad I didn’t know and wasn’t there for her, because if I did know, I would have fucking been there 1000%. The picture was grotesque and traumatic to say the least.

I wasn’t a Facebook junkie. I’d hop on, drop a post, and disappear. I’d hop on again, scroll for five minutes, and bounce. Everyone who was posting sad, sobbing, self-inflicted attention-seeking stuff—I put on hide. I wanted to see positive memes, uplifting posts. All the shit I had stuffed down along with sad, sobbing posts weren’t a healthy mix for me.

I made it clear that night: if anything ever happened to anyone, CALL ME! Text me! Do not expect me to find out shit, especially something as serious as that, on fucking Facebook! I never went to any of her events again, not until her 50th. I’m quite certain that right there was the beginning of a snowball!

I wasn’t around, not after being bombarded like that—it was fucking wrong, all the way wrong! Also, I always had anxiety around her choice of company. I mean, it was certainly questionable—I always thought that recovering crack addicts didn’t hang around crackheads once they became clean.

Blair reached out one random day wanting her lashes done. I question that now. She came for a set, and then maybe one or two fills, and that was it. It was awkward. I honestly do not know why she came—no clue. Maybe just to see what I was up to? I don’t know, but that was the last time I saw her until her 50th.

I was super reluctant to attend, especially after the last event I went to, when I was chastised by all but Natalie.

50 is a big one—we had been friends for 30 years. I fully knew there would be people there I didn’t want to see or reconnect with. I had also packed on a few pounds—not that I cared or studied it. I was living, eating, lashing, partying—I didn’t think about it too much or making a change at that time.

I was obviously self-conscious about it, of course I was! Especially around those guys. Between the four of us, I was the one who was consistently in shape. We all fluctuated up and down, and we were all checking each other out every time we saw each other. I could give two shits about their size, to be honest; I wasn’t bothered when they were up or down. Nor would I mention it or dare call one of them out. But they were always watching me and commenting—always! More so, Blair and Natalie than Molly.

I always had my shit together—a few pounds heavier or not, my style was always on point. I always rocked a bold hairstyle and a well-put-together outfit. How do I know they were watching me? Because they commented on every single fucking thing! My shoes, hair, makeup, clothes, and body. So, I knew going in with a few extra pounds that I was already insecure about was going to be mentioned.

I went anyway. Blair looked amazing! Well put together in a white and gold outfit—all sparkly and glittery. Not my jam, but it was hers. She wore a proper wig, and her eyes were wide and glossy.

You can fool some of the people some of the time…

I could see them all sizing me up and down, and I could tell it made all of them feel better about themselves, seeing me at my biggest. I felt it! I had a couple of drinks and left. I felt lucky to have made it out with some of my dignity still intact.

The next day, I was sitting at work, just finishing up with a client, when Blair called. I rarely ever answer the phone, but I saw it was her and wondered what the fuck was up.

I said, “Hey.” She said, “Hi—are you menopausal?” I was like, “Maybe, ya. I don’t know. Why?” “Damn, girl, that's why you gained all that weight!!!” What the fuck?!

I was fucking mortified! I finished up work, went home, and after processing what she had said to me, I called her back, saying something along the lines of—how fucking dare you comment on my weight knowing I’m fucking insecure, what the fuck, man? Blair was all, tisic, “Huh?” Miss Innocent! “What are you talking about? You know what, you're always starting some shit, making a big deal out of nothing. I’m not doing this with you anymore!” End of conversation.

I shot her a text and said... “Thank you for that—that was just the fucking push I needed to go hard and get my body back on track! Thank you very much!” And you best believe I did—and fast—wanna fuck around with a Virgo!

I spoke with Natalie about it the next day, and ironically, Kayla’s godmother! That was the very last time she and I spoke. They both agreed that it was super fucked up, especially coming from Blair, who has been fat and cracked-out skinny, back and forth, up and down, her whole life.

We were ALL insecure! That was a fucking punch straight to the gut!

Right after her 50th, and that fucking incident, Blair started creating 'Sisters for Life' tumblers, shirts, keychains, or whatever the fuck she could come up with, with three faces on it—every single little piece of it—hers, Natalie’s, and Molly’s. At the hand of Blair, I had been ousted from the group. Evil.

I saw it all over Facebook. I had taken her off to hide after the emergency surgery episode, and I saw it all—she made sure I did! It hurt, but I never spoke on it. It was post after post after post—tag after tag after tag! They even got tattoos—sun, moon, and stars, one each. I thought that was odd because I had the sun, moon, and stars tatted across my three fingers on my left hand, one on each finger. Again, I never said shit about it. The tags, the merch, the posts, and the tattoos—all Blair’s ideas.

It was the middle of the pandemic, and I reached out to Blair one day. I hated the way shit went down. We’d been friends forever, and I wanted to reconcile, and we did—or at least I thought we did.

Blair started coming around for lashes again sometime around late October or early November 2022, after I settled into the new shop. Just randomly. She complained about them before, too long—how they touched her glasses, how they bothered her. I mean, they were only 12mm with a tight curl. I took it as criticism, just as it was intended to be.

So there we were again, and I used the same length because that’s the length for her! Her face, her eye shape, and her lash length and strength.

Blair was just coming around to check shit out—to check me the fuck out!! Show off her gaudy gear! None of her gear was my style at all, maybe the odd piece that wasn't bejeweled or had reflectors on it. Once Blair got clean she developed an addiction for material things. She would hoard—food, clothes, shoes, jewelry—you name it. She’d have so much shit and still want more!

I used to give her Trent’s stuff for Kevin when he grew out of it. She would tell me about all her stuff in passing just when she came to collect—that’s how our relationship was for a long while. She’d tell me that she had so much shit still with tags on it, and when I told her I was donating my clothes and coats, she wanted it! I was like—”Girl, go on, man, you don’t need my shit!” Greed!

So, she was coming every two weeks for lashes. When she told me about the cancer, she had known and was holding back until she wasn’t. I was taken aback of course—stage 4!??

Some time had passed, and Natalie reached out to me in her own time. We spoke, and I was like, “What the fuck, girl? Stage 4!” She responded, “Ya, I had some issues, but I just thought it was diabetes and didn’t think too much of it.” Natalie didn’t feel sick or look sick. She actually looked pretty great and had a glow about her. I mean, to be fair, I myself wasn’t looking after my health the greatest during the pandemic either. Doctor’s appointments, tests, anything like that during the pandemic was challenging, to say the least.

Christmas passed, and I think that’s when Blair stopped coming for lashes. I was working my one shift a week at Big Bag and tripping out mentally about my surgery.
I don’t remember much of Blair during that time between January and April—just the same copy-and-pasted text she would send me every few days.

“Hello, beautiful.

I hope you’re doing well. I have many deliveries to make today to those in need.

Have a wonderful day.

Love you.”

“Hi, ya I’m good. Thx.”

Sometimes we’d go back and forth, and sometimes that was it.

I don’t text like that, nor do I expect to receive a text in an email format, nor should anyone ever expect me to respond that way. It’s the kind of text I’d normally ignore. Texting for me is quick! I want the quick answer, or I have some one-liner to send. If I wanted to write a letter, I would, then stamp it and mail it.

This was a text message. Her texts were always in the same format and mostly the same content. It felt like she was trying to convince me she wasn’t selfish and prove she could be formal. I don’t know, I just found it odd.

In January, I wanted to see Natalie—it had been a minute. She’s had cancer, I was having heart surgery—who knows what the fuck was gonna happen to either of us! Blair offered to take me out to Curtis to see her. We grabbed Chinese food and went to her house. Her and her hubby were there, and then Molly came over.

I brought Natalie a beautiful bouquet of white flowers—something to cheer her up. I was there, and it felt like home. I mean, why wouldn’t it? We were up in her room, laying on her bed, shooting the shit just like the old days, while Blair was going through her closet. It felt good to be close to her like that after some time apart.

On the evening of April 10th, Natalie called me and wished me all the best for my upcoming surgery. On April 11th, I had my surgery. I was fucked up for 6+ months mentally. I was in the hospital for 15 days. I almost died, and not one of them checked on me! Not in the hospital, not when I got home!

In June, Blair’s first son passed away. She held a memorial at the Legion. Me, all dazed and confused, fucked up in the head, fragile as fuck, attended. Six weeks out of surgery. It’s like I was on autopilot—I had to show up—had to! I had no fucking business being at any event, and especially not that one, even though it was her firstborn’s passing. I wasn’t well.

I always had this thing in my head after that time they shoved their phones in my face with a picture of Blair’s gut stapled up—that God forbid I miss anything tragic ever again in my life, or else I’d be permanently ousted in every which way from my family.

As soon as I got out of the Uber, some sketched-out blonde chick barked at me, “Oh, look at you—aren’t you pretty!” Her face all scowled up. I was like—holy fuck, here we go. Don’t even look, Jaye. Just keep walking.

I entered the Legion, and Sketchy followed me in. I made a beeline straight for Natalie and Molly. We all hugged, and I thought everything was good, not even comprehending that, firstly, I was barely six weeks out of the hospital from fucking heart surgery. I shouldn't even have been there—or anywhere for that matter—but somehow, I was. The pressure to attend was intense and coming from every angle. Secondly, not one of them even bothered to show up for me or check in on me in my greatest time of need!

As far as I could see, everyone seemed fine with everybody, including Molly’s husband, who greeted me with a hug. The two girls and I walked outside, scattered a bit, and I sat down. I looked over, and directly across from me was an eyesore—an old, deceitful roommate. One I hoped I’d never see again in my life. And to make matters worse, Sketchy came and sat down right beside me!

She was rambling on and showing me some shit on her Facebook. I didn’t care to see. I tried so hard to stay out of her sights because I knew she was trouble as soon as I pulled up, but nope, didn’t work. As she tried to shove her phone in my face, she said, “I’m gonna knock somebody out!” I said, “Not me, please. I just had heart surgery.” She fucking jumped up and said, “I DON’T GIVE A FUCK!” Well, then!

Molly and Natalie finally looked over, came to me, and we walked forward. I looked up and saw this guy approaching the Legion. I felt sick to my stomach!

One late night when Blair left me in Regent, I was alone, trying to make my way out of the Park. The first part of that mission was: to make it safely out of the building—that in itself is a fucking task! Then, to make it out of the complex.

During part two—my worst fucking nightmare! Three guys appeared out of nowhere, and one of them said, “Well, well, well, what do we have here!?” He picked me up, slammed me on the hood of a car, ripped my skirt, spread my legs open, started grinding on me, and said, “Let’s take her up to Jimmy’s.” As he grinded, he said, “Nobody is at your place, right? Let’s take her up to your place, Jimmy.” That name, Jimmy, never did leave my head, nor did the face of the man who was grinding up on me. 

I was bawling, begging them to let me go—I told them that I was pregnant, and begged. "Please, no, no!" Jimmy said, "No, man, let her go." Terror doesn’t even begin to describe how I felt. The guy who had his hands on me was reluctant, but he finally let me go. I booked it up to Gerrard, walking and running all the way home to Pape.

It was fucking HIM! Walking up to the fucking Legion. The same motherfucker who grabbed me that night!

Immediately when I saw him, I started trembling. I told Molly what happened that night. I think Natalie was also there. Molly said, "Jimmy?? Ya, he let you go because he knows Earl—Kayla’s fucking dad!"

Earl’s right-hand man was from the Park. They were both 6'2" to 6'4", well-known, black belts in Taekwondo, and several years older than those guys, who were just my age or maybe a year or two older! I felt sick to my stomach. I called an Uber and got the fuck out of there.

My PTSD after my surgery was all in my face, making appearances here and there and that incident was most definitely a fucking part of it. They didn’t rape me, but why—because they knew who I was? Or at least Jimmy did! If it wasn’t for that, what was going to happen to me? What happened to the others who didn’t have an Earl? And furthermore, what the fuck is a crackhead rapist doing in the company of a recovering addict, sexual and violence abuse worker/advocate?!?!?

The fact that someone like that—someone involved with violence, sexual abuse, and drugs—would even be present in the company of someone trying to recover or help others is unsettling. It speaks volumes. Her company. The very company I wanted nothing to do with!

The girls clearly told Blair about the situation and who was involved 100%! I spoke with Blair a day or so after her son’s memorial, and she brought up my trauma. She told me she knew about a victim’s benefit in the amount of 20K and went on to say—“There’s so much out there, girllllll!” Braggin’.

I was like, “Really? Put me on, please—what does it all entail?” Fuck, I was without an income. I had a long recovery road ahead of me, I sure could have used that! She started telling me the details and then she started backpedaling with, “Ya, it’s a lot, really.”

I thought to myself, a lot—no fucking problem! I’ve got ALL the details in my head! About my uncle, the three guys who raped me when I was 16, this incident, and another rape that took place in Flemingdon!

I asked, “What’s it called?” “I’m not sure I’ll look it up and get back to you.” I spent days looking for it and couldn’t find it, so I reached out to Blair. “Hey, what’s that victim's benefit thing you told me about again?” “Oh, oh—let me try to find it and send it to you.”

Days later, nothing, so I called her, and we talked about it briefly before I even realized, holy fuck! Blair is a violence, sexual abuse worker/advocate! I straight up told her, “I want you to advocate for me, please.”

“No.” She told me fucking NO!

But wait, isn’t your role to help broken people like me? Isn’t that what you do? And I’m your friend? Something wasn’t right—not at all! I can’t help but wonder now, if she was protecting the predator. I couldn’t even get the name of the benefit from her to pursue it myself.

I was only maybe two months out of surgery if that. I never really thought much of it at the time. Every few days, she would send me the exact same message: “Good morning, how are you doing? I hope you’re doing well. I’m doing this, this, this, and that, helping these people and those people. I’ll talk to you later. Have yourself a great day. Love you!” The same stupid fucking text over and over. Keeping the waters calm.