Just got an email from the landlord. He was in to fix the heating in the roommate’s bedroom and noticed the electric heater. He asked me not to use it, because it increases the hydro (which is included in the rent). There’s no such provision in the lease, and I get why they’d like to keep the price down, but hey, I also have to pay for the gas on top of the rent, and given the lousy circulation in my hands and feet with the type 2 diabetes, the floor heater sometimes helps.
It’s set me on edge, kicked in my anxiety, got me in a tiny spiral.
That’s not the point of this ramble.
It’s this. “I haven’t been able to really handle things since October.”
But that’s a lie.
I’ve been cracking all year. The paranoia while weaning off of Pristiq in the winter months, the call to the distress centre in April, the meltdown on moving day. Cracks in the foundation. I just had it hammered down so tightly until October. On October 20th, the cap got blown off. What I thought were wilder mood swings are actually mood swings that aren’t being suppressed.
This is the unvarnished, stripped bare, me. I’m a fucking mess. And I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow.
The Bloody Doors Off 
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