The Bloody Doors Off

The past couple of nights, I’ve been suffering from waves of anxiety, with no known cause.

It got so bad last night, I had to take a Propranolol. The anxiety spikes my blood pressure and the pill helps slow my heart rate so I can calm down. It’s a fail safe; I take one maybe every five to six months, if it’s bad enough.

And to answer any lingering questions…

Unlike traditional anxiety medications, beta blockers are not addictive. Propranolol and the like do not cause drug dependency (or withdrawal symptoms when you stop taking them) and are safe to take occasionally over a long period of time.

The Mayo Clinic

The only reason I wrote this post is because the title popped into my head.

There’s no underlying point, no grand revelation.

Except, I think my anxiety is getting worse. And the low-grade headaches continue.

Oh, the seal on my CPAP mask is split and if I don’t tuck the plastic just the right way, it leaks.

When it leaks, I get less oxygen when I sleep.

And I snore more.

I ordered a new mask. I could’ve just ordered a replacement part, but a new model hit the market that supposedly deals with ‘chin drop’, and if it works, it should keep my mouth closed and reducing the chance of snoring further.

But it’s not here yet.

And last night’s sleep got fucked over because we lost power for two hours in the middle of the night.

So here I am, now-turned Friday morning (by a minute), and I’m stalling. I need to sleep. The Boy^TM has school in the morning and I need to be awake. Plus, I have a job incoming in a few hours.

I haven’t made a Snow Angel in decades.

When I was a kid. And I remember how we’d try not to leave footprints in the snow, so it appeared as if they appeared like crop circles. And every winter, my brothers would build an ice rink in the backyard and invite the neighbourhood kids over to play hockey.

They never did ask me to play. I mean, when they were selecting teams, I wasn’t high on anyone’s list. Most of the time I got to watch.

Not like I was any great shakes on a pair of ice skates. I never learned to properly stop. Usually I crashed into the boards. Or another person. I remember a community ice rink near where I lived. Markham Road and Ellesmere. Strange that I can remember it was on the southwest corner of the intersection, but have trouble remembering if I’d taken my metformin after breakfast.

I did a really douchy thing there once. I purposefully stumbled into a bunch of cute girls, and a few of them called me out on it. (Wish I could say it was a dare from one of my friends, but I’m pretty sure that’s not true.) That was a definite focal point in my life’s education. Treat women (and girls) with respect. End of story.

I’m not sure why I felt the need to relive that.

No, to confess it.

I knew what I was doing was wrong. I did it anyway.

And I’m sorry.

(Remember, I did tagline this blog as “confessions of a dangerous mind”.)

I’m gonna go to bed before I do something stupid, like confess to kidnapping the Lindbergh baby.

Which would take a time machine, because I was born in ’66 and Charles Augustus Lindbergh Jr. was kidnapped in ’32.

And really, if I had a time machine, I’d go back and body check me into the boards as soon as I’d laced up the skates.

Twelve thirty now.

I’m packing it in.