The Bloody Doors Off

Covid’s really done a number on me.

It’s done a number on us.

All of us.

But this blog is about me.

And I’m not narcissistic.

But.

This is about me.

So suck it.

I think, if I’d been living alone.

Covid would’ve broken me.

I certainly wouldn’t be dealing with my teeth.

Too concerned with my mental health.

(Probably would’ve still been scammed. Snort.)

I’m thankful.

For Marlo.

For Coltrane.

They help me stay planted..

Keep sane.

I’m not sure if I ever talked about what led up to my breakdown.

Almost 8 years now.

Earlier in the year, I’d faced eviction from my apartment because my landlord (a rental company) were being real dicks to everyone as an excuse for renoviction. I was days late, and they were quick with the papers.

(Too quick, honestly. I gotta feeling they had a draft folder waiting to fill in the blanks at the first opportunity.)

I went to the Landlord/Tenant Board.

They sent a representative who didn’t know his ass from a backhoe.

Granted an injunction.

Served them a money order for arrears, and gave 60 days notice.

I was already planning to leave.

But it was on my terms.

Yeah, that was April.

I remember the stress of it.

I’d even called the Suicide Hotline, I was feeling so low.

Needed someone I didn’t know to talk me down.

I was switching my anti-depressants and was on the lowest dose of the old prescription.

It brought about intense paranoia. Lasted until I was finally on my new medication.

Then came the migration.

Finding a new apartment, and being convinced to move into an apartment with a roommate to share costs.

I say convinced, not because I was against the idea, but I just had a gut feeling the person I was going to share a living space with wasn’t going to be a great fit, even though we had some interests, and friends, in common.

So we searched, and eventually found a basement 2-bedroom on Greenwood, where I’d live until 2018.

I moved in.

He followed.

He drank.

A lot.

I started suffering a form of PTSD, reliving all the times my father got drunk, passed out, couldn’t keep his pants on…

So my mental state was being chipped away at.

It’s fall. Late September, early October.

I’m still smoking. Always outside. Couldn’t stand the stench. Bad enough I smoked indoors in the last apartment, wasn’t going to repeat that mistake.

My psyche is unravelling. The roommate is a nightmare. Work FINALLY started coming in, but I’d been stressing since I was laid off in September 2012. (I don’t care if it really means fired, I’m gonna refer to it as laid off).

That was the year I went camping with Rena. I remember, I was negotiating my exit package from Canaccord Genuity when this all went down.

But this is October 2013 and I’m a match stick waiting to be lit.

It was a Tuesday. October 22.

I had an appointment with my psychiatrist that day. I remember receiving extremely unsettling news. (I draw a blank on what exactly it entailed, it may have been being denies OW, dunno.)

Clearly, I was distraught enough that my doctor wrote a note on the back of his card that started, “Psychiatry Crisis”.

It was a long subway ride back to Greenwood Station.

Got on the bus.

Took the second, single seat behind another passenger.

Who listened to music way too loud.

And bobbled his head to the melody.

In that moment.

I justified murder.

No, you don’t understand.

I was going to follow him off the bus.

It lasted a millisecond.

It shook me to my core.

And then I remembered I had a bottle of sleeping pills.

Because I don’t sleep, otherwise.

Because I fucked myself up by working midnights for 10 years.

Back to the pills.

I considered that a little longer than a millisecond.

So I did one of the smartest things in my life.

Top 5.

I called my friend Scott.

He came over.

We put a heated can of baked beans in a tupperware bowl so I’d have something to eat.

And we caught the bus to Michael Garron Hospital.

How can I help you?

“I’m in crisis.”