The Bloody Doors Off

I fell pretty hard last night.

I didn’t slip off the bed or anything.

But the weight of it all. It’s getting worse.

The tell tale sign is a heaviness in my chest. Breathing gets harder. And there’s the brain fog and, sometimes, tears. Nothing dramatic. Just welling up. My SSRIs won’t let me commit.

Like it didn’t at my mum’s funeral.

Christ, I wanted to cry. I knew I wouldn’t. The Wellbutrin was too strong, and that’s when I was taking half the dosage I’m on now.

When they played her favourite song.

Can I have this dance, for the rest of my life…

Even then. Just a hint of moisture.

That was 2013. (My birthday. Yay for 50!)

In 2008 I couldn’t stop crying, even with the Zoloft my GP (since retired) put me on. I went on short-term disability from work.

Anything could set me off.

Last night I could only muster a little moisture.

I’d curled up on the bed. Begged for relief. Instead I fell asleep and woke up at 5:00 am.

Went back to bed five hours later. A shorter sleep this time.

And I actually woke up feeling better.

But that was bullshit too. A mask. A mask that eventually slipped, as it does.

As it must, it seems.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. I don’t know why I’m making this public.

It’s not altruism. I’m not performing a morality play. I’m not.

That’s the problem. I don’t know what I am.

Except broken.

I’m dreading August. Trillium (Ontario Drug Program) will reset the deductible and we’ll have to pay for our prescriptions until we hit the new target. And I’ve got a shit load of prescriptions coming due next month. Which I can’t afford.

And I sure as shit am not running a GoFundMe.

Dunno, maybe I should’ve cashed in my CIBC pension when I hit 55. At least I’d have a tiny income coming in.

I’m really sorry you’re reading this. But I promised myself 10 years ago I’d document this shit, flies and all.

So what the hell.

I’m broken.

Nice to meet you.