The Bloody Doors Off

I’ve been back and forth about writing this particular post.

It’s been twenty-four hours, give or take.

Harold played a mind fuck on me last night.

It was so insidious, I wasn’t even aware it was his hand on the wheel.

“Brutal” is the only word I can use to effectively describe the monologue in my head.

He’s a very effective writer.

Harold knows where the bodies are buried.

And he’s more than happy to dig a spot for you.

Ugh.

Yeah, this is far as I’m gonna go.

I don’t need to relive that particular memory.

I’m done.

I just can’t.

The far-right has taken hold in Canada, disguising a “freedom protest” against Covid vaccines and mask mandates as an excuse to try to intimidate/overthrow the federal government.

Putin has invaded Ukraine, and apparently half of all Americans have forgotten what World War II was about, and if they’re not kissing his and Trump’s ass, they’re busy jamming legislation to investigate Trans kids’ genitals and take away abortion rights. Trump even called the invasion “genius”, and this is the guy the Republicans want as the leader of the largest “free” nation in the world. Even the Russian populace is revolting against this aggression, and so far, almost 1,500 protesters (and that’s a legitimate reason to protest, #flutruxklan) have been arrested.

I can’t write worth shit. It’s not just a writer’s block. I have zero interest in writing plays, short or long. Once-enticing online workshops just feel “meh”. Blog posts are few and far in-between. I’ve even lost interest in running Sing For Your Supper, a monthly online (for now) new short-play reading.

Even baseball. One of the few joys I can look forward to lifting me up from the winter doldrums is Spring Training. But the players are currently locked out by management and even though both sides are at the mediation table, it’s doubtful they will come to an agreement before Monday, and will threaten the start of the season.

To top things off, our beloved dog Auggie is sick. The vet doesn’t know the cause. She drained almost a litre of fluid from her belly last week, and it’s filling up again. It could be her liver, her heart, or … yeah. And it’s expensive as fuck. I have not entertained the idea of a GoFundMe because I haven’t contributed to others whose pets were sick, so why would you for us? We need to shoulder this burden on our own.

I’m sick of it.

Well and truly.

The passion is gone.

Maybe it’ll come back tomorrow.

The night is heavy, and full of wolves.

But there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Casey has struck out.

You are, Auggie. You are.

So, looking back over the past couple of days.

If you take into account my Facebook ravings.

I’ve kinda come off the rails.

Which is worrisome.

But what’s really scary.

Is that.

No one’s called me on it.

Was awake a few minutes before my alarm. Able to mobilize fairly quickly.

Made The Boy^TM his lunch for school, doodled around on the computer for a while.

Managed to go out to the St. Lawrence Market and get some groceries for the clan, and the pharmacy for my prescriptions. Scored a rapid test kit from two different pharmacies.

So far, it’s been miles above the past few days.

Hope I don’t jinx it.

Some people say he has a death wish
Trouble is he tends to agree
Let’s not ask too many questions
It’s nothing to do with you or me
He remembers a time when even going home was sweet
Now he can’t feel the ground under his feet

Shakespeares Sister, The Trouble With Andre

The trouble with wanting to switch anti-depressants when you suspect they’ve stopped working.

You have to wean yourself off of the current prescription before beginning another.

I’ve done that before. With Pristiq.

It was. Not good.

Everything became a conspiracy.

That’s something I’d like to not relive, k thx bai.

I may not have a choice.

Things aren’t getting better.

The only time I feel in control is when I’m working.

It forces me to hyper-focus on the task at hand.

Shuts everything else out.

I’ve been using television as a substitute between emails.

It helps. A little.

But those moments. In between.

Are cavernous.

That’s all for tonight.

I’ve been emotional lately.

Panic attacks on the daily.

No discernible triggers. Just little things.

Or in this particular case, the absence of a little thing.

It’s not like I am/was blindsided.

I’m honestly surprised it’s an issue at all.

Yet, it stings.

No, I’m not gonna discuss it here.

You don’t need to know everything.

And it honestly is nothing.

It shouldn’t fucking matter.

It doesn’t fucking matter.

So why is my nose bent out of joint?

Goddammit. I hate this.

I’m gonna watch All Of Us Are Dead.

i’m not doing so good right now.

I just spent a total of twenty-one hours within the last forty-eight working on two presentations for a contract job I picked up on Thursday.

The first couldn’t have gone smoother. Everything just made sense.

Then came the second job. It’s on SharePoint as it’s a living document, with four separate individuals adding content. So I totally understand the need to work on it online.

There’s just one issue: SharePoint is several generations behind PowerPoint in things you can do. For example, you can’t create or edit a slide master in SharePoint. Which meant, one did not exist for this nearing one hundred page deck. Every page had to be eyeballed, fonts had to be manually changed, that sort of thing. Oh yeah, nearly forgot. Because of some reason I can’t comprehend, the text boxes would expand width-wise when I clicked out of them. Which meant, I got to recreate those too.

But here’s the thing.

If you’re gonna have these kind of limitations, best you have me batting clean-up. I spent seventeen hours on this deck, and as of an hour ago, that motherfucker was pristine. You could eat dinner off of that floor.

And I still had enough energy to assemble a salad for my wife.

No doubt I’m gonna crash hard tonight, and tomorrow is another day. There will be further requests for this presentation.

Bring it.

(TLDR: I made a thing pretty. I’m very tired.)

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.