The Bloody Doors Off

It’s 9:30 pm on the first day of a new year, and I can’t tell between a tablespoon and a teaspoon.

Who had ‘Koster loses his marbles’ on their 2022 bingo card?

Okay, I’m not going mad. Just confused as all hell.

I slept until 1:30 pm today. Woke up around 9 to take a piss, and promptly crawled back into bed for several more hours.

This from the guy who couldn’t sleep past 6 am on a good day.

Two more days.

I just gotta endure this tongue pain a couple more days and (hopefully) I’ll have answers and/or a game plan.

I honestly thought I’d just bitten the damned thing, when it started.

I’m worried that I’m not worried enough about it. Oh, I have my moments, but that’s all they are. And the pain is constant. Mostly a dull ache, a 2 on a scale up to 10. But, usually when I eat or drink, I’ll get a jab of searing pain, ratcheting up to a 7 or 8. And honestly, I’m a little surprised I got an appointment so quickly after New Year’s. They called to confirm a few days ago and I panicked they were phoning to cancel because of Covid.

For 2021.

Yeah, I know. Resorting to clickbait. That’s what 2021 has felt like.

While I’m thankful for many, many things, I can honestly say this year can fuck off.

Because of the goddamned Conservatives in power here in Ontario, I fear for my fucking life if I get a bloody headache. I was nauseous for less than 24 hours this week, and because of the CDC website, I panicked that I had Covid. (Nausea is only a symptom for kids.) And because of the CONs, we can no longer get a PCR test. Without paying upwards of $300. And they’re not tracking daily numbers. So for all we know, half of the fucking city has it. And we’re only supposed to quarantine for five days now, because businesses are losing money. And the CONs keep voting down sick pay for employees.

I am thankful for my family and friends. And I’m thankful the federal government had CERB this past year (though they shouldn’t have ended it given we’re going into 2022 with a more virulent strain of this goddamned virus).

I’m pissed the ideas dried up, story-wise. The latter half of 2020 and the first months of 2021 were extremely creative for me. But this fall has been painful. You’ve heard the expression “it’s like having teeth pulled”? Well, I fucking did that. Had to face my fears of the dentist and spend thousands (because, again, no insurance because the CONs refuse to accept that proper dental care is essential to your mental and physical health) on getting several teeth yanked and temporary dentures sculpted. And I’ve got something growing on the bottom of my tongue that I’ve been waiting longer than a month to get diagnosed. (Monday can’t come soon enough.) And the week after that, I’m having one more tooth taken out. So yeah, January is off to a rocking start.

I sound bitter. I am.

But, I am also hopeful.

I am loved. I have a family that supports me through it all.

I made it through November and December wearing short-sleeved shirts. That was a goal I’d set for myself. (Because what really can you do when you’re spending 99 percent of your life in the same apartment, only getting out to run quick errands or walk the dog?) Social media has been a grimy window to the world, and it’s aged me this year. It’s added to the bitterness.

I am not making resolutions for 2022. I am waiting out the first few months, waiting to see where it will take us. (And it took Betty White as a final fuck you for this year, so I’m more than willing to flip Father Time the bird.)

So yeah, this is my final post for the year.

Which lasts for (checks the computer clock) forty minutes.

See ya on the other side.

Be safe.

For a cottage with four people, it is deceptively quiet right now. Coltrane and Maddy are on their phones, Marlo is having a shower. Auggie is snoring. And I’m at the keyboard, with a separate tab open on CP24 News. The dishwasher is running, but it too is very quiet. (It’s got ‘silent’ in the make, so there ya go.)

This sense of relaxation is what I missed at the cottage we rented back in August, and I’m not sure why that is.

We’ve discussed an afternoon trip into town to get a few groceries, and check out thrift shops, and maybe a CD store (if it still exists) for C, who is quite obsessed with them right now. I’m just happy to go along for the ride.

I’ve got two jobs in my inbox, for the start of the new year. This pleases me, as December was a debacle work-wise.

Don’t know what we’ll be doing for New Year’s on Friday; chances are, with Omicron, most events will be cancelled. (Not like we’re the adventurous type either. Quite frankly, I’m happy to avoid crowds for the most part.)

I’m happy to be writing again, even if it’s meaningless drivel for the blog. I most certainly didn’t like the block for the majority of the month.

Anyway, I’ve got nothing else to talk/rant about.

Until next time.

Be excellent to each other.

But maybe cut down on the partying until we get a firm grip on this latest Covid-19 variant.

Hey look, a title that may actually tie into the blog post.

It started small, as most panic attacks do.

I couldn’t find my water glass.

It ended with me standing in the bathroom, pants around my ankles.

Right. From the beginning then.

So I’ve still got the … thing on the underside of my tongue. (I refuse to believe it’s a cyst until I have a proper diagnosis, hopefully next week.) There’s a near-constant dull ache. At times it makes concentration difficult. Even swallowing liquid can sometimes be painful.

And I was thirsty.

So I got up from the hutch which I’ve claimed as my computer space at the cottage.

Sidebar: I haven’t written about the cottage yet. lIt’s quite lovely. The main area is wood, it’s got a sun deck out back (which I imagine would be lovely in warmer weather). Because it’s lake-adjacent, the owners/management have supplied a; water cooler with three jugs of water. I took Auggie for a walk in the snow this afternoon. It was very tranquil.

Water.

I’m a firm believer in rinsing and reusing glasses and mugs. Only I couldn’t find it. Marlo suggested that I just take a new tumbler from the cabinet, which makes complete sense for ninety-nine point nine of the human population. (The data regarding the bonobos is still being parsed.) I, of course, belong to that elusive point one percent that refuses to follow such cultural norms. So I reach to the right side of the hutch to retrieve my prize.

Only it’s not there.

No worries, I’m sure I put it on the coffee table. Nope, that’s our friend Maddy’s. I protest, but she is insistent. Well, there aren’t many places it could be, after all none of us has gone downstairs — not true, the boy chose to wisely get away from us earlier to play on his Switch with online friends — so I know the glass isn’t down there.

The bedside table.

Makes sense. I took an nap earlier, and I always have a cup there in case I get thirsty. I get to the bedroom and nope, not there.

I’m now very confused. And that leads to the beginnings of my anxiety attack. Not because I’ve misplaced a glass, c’mon you can get those for a buck at Dollarama, but because I can’t remember where the hell I put it. And I start thinking about other times in recent memory where my, uh, memory has failed me.

And that. That launches a full-blown panic episode. Which branches off like a Marvel Universe variant timeline. (The geeks will get that reference.) Because, you see, twelve hours ago I was intensely afraid that I had Covid. I’d had nausea and vomiting from Sunday night through Monday afternoon. The CDC lists these symptoms. I took their online quiz. It said to get tested immediately.

You know what else is a symptom of nausea and vomiting?

Food poisoning.

So yeah, I most likely had food poisoning, because it went away after I took the aforementioned nap.

But, you may ask, how does that lead to me, pantsed in the bathroom? Okay, maybe you didn’t ask, but I’m gonna tell you anyway.

I had to go to the bathroom. (Occam’s razor.) Which is where I found the errant glass.

But that panic attack hadn’t ceased. Oh no, it was in full bloom. We’re talking nonsensical shit too. It bordered on paranoia. I’m not proud of where my brain went. I won’t discuss it in this post; quite frankly, it was most likely generated by Harold, who has been mercifully quiet of late.

I think I sat there for ten minutes. At least it felt like ten minutes. And really, I only needed two to don my ablutions. (Please tell me I used that word correctly.) It finally sank in that I was done and needed to get up. That took another minute to achieve. I pulled up my boxer briefs (who had that in the betting pool?) and froze. Because that’s happened before. I literally freeze up. Immobile. My last depressive episode saw that occur several times. I initially thought it was triggered by the lithium, but it came back tonight.

Thus began the great debate of December 27, 2021. Do I decide to take them off and put on my sleepwear? That lasted a few minutes. At least it felt like minutes.

So I eventually came unstuck and made my to the bedroom to change. And while I’m here, I thought, I might as well take my pills.

Which I needed water for.

Only I’d forgotten the glass in the bathroom.

Had a meltdown earlier today.

Wrapping a Christmas present.

Clearly, there were other issues at play; this was just the icing on the cake.

And here I thought I was getting better.

Merry Christmas.

It’s snowing outside.

It’ll be gone by mid-day. Supposed to go up to 7 degrees Celsius.

It’s almost Christmas Eve and I’m feeling somewhat melancholy.

I’m Charlie Brown, and I’ve just purchased a sad little Christmas twig because I thought it was lonely and needed a good home. But then I hang a shiny ornament on the branch and it keeled over.

I haven’t watched A Charlie Brown Christmas this year. (I think it’s only airing on Apple TV?) It’s part of my trio of flicks to watch (along with It’s A Wonderful Life and White Christmas). Usually puts me in the holiday spirit. But things are just getting beyond the absolute shitshow that was my mental state from November up until a week ago.

Linus and Lucy. I heart that song. Always makes me dance like an idiot. You know, shoulders hunched, arms at the side, bouncing from leg to leg. Back in my twenties I worked for BMO at Bay and Bloor Streets. During the holiday season, building management hired a piano player to entertain shoppers and those that worked in the building above. I once asked him if he knew the song, and he played it perfectly. Then, every time I entered the lobby on my way to the office, when he saw me he would stop whatever song he was playing and launch into the first few bars of Linus and Lucy.

That’s all it is now. A memory.

I dunno. We did talk tonight about adding a Christmas tree next year. Marlo brought it up, and I love her for it. It might be nice to get the ornaments out of storage, and make some good memories.

But that’s not the panacea I’m searching for.

If I figure out what it is, I’ll let you know.

I’m feeling very pessimistic tonight.

What with a Covid resurgence, new restrictions being placed, lockdowns in other provinces, it’s 2020 all over again. We’ve lived this nightmare for far too long, but because there are (tens of? hundreds?) thousands of Covidiots who didn’t get the vaccine, actively refused to wear masks and made things generally fucking hellish on the rest of us, we get to suffer another winter.

We are supposed to be taking a four-day trip to Orillia after Christmas for a much needed break, but I can’t truly accept it is happening until we are actually packed up in the car and have left the parking garage. I want to believe, but I can’t allow myself to get my hopes up.

So many plans this week have been unfulfilled because of the rapidly spreading Omicron variant.

Tonight, I looked out our north-facing windows (into the parking lot that is to become yet more condominiums here in the Distillery) and saw the dark outline of a second crane in mid-assembly. It looked like a fucking alien craft had landed outside our building and I swear to gods, I had a moment where I thought “Fuck yeah, that about tracks. Who had alien invasion on the 2021 bingo cards?”

We are. All. Run down.

Plans for Coltrane’s birthday have flown out the window. You can hear the resignation in his voice. Another year passing, and he can’t spend it with his friends at his favourite Chinese restaurant. And I’m worried that Christmas dinner will get cancelled. Again. We barely see our families at it is.

And this is happening everywhere. Everyone’s got a story. Everyone is hurting.

Except maybe Randy Hillier. That asshole loves stirring the pot.

What a fucking weird time to exit a depressive episode. I feel like I’m The Omega Man, which, if you know the story blocks of the movie, isn’t too far removed from today’s reality.

Gods, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.

And an exit strategy from fucking Covid would be nice too.

(I don’t know why, but I find this vaguely disturbing.)

Still feeling a bit apathetic towards Christmas. I just can’t get into the spirit.

I used to do Christmas cards for family and friends.

Then pared it back to family.

Then immediate family.

I looked forward to receiving Christmas cards too. That’s all changed.

When did I get so cynical?

Growing old sucks.

Growing old blows.

Growing old both sucks and blows.

Been experiencing my restless leg symptoms earlier and earlier in the day, this past month. GP thinks it could be an iron deficiency, so she orders blood work. Sure enough, I’m on the very bottom of the spectrum. She orders iron pills.

Warning: iron pills can make you constipated.

Very constipated.

That’s on half the dosage I’m to work up to.

I haven’t had a proper shit all week. We’re talking the odd nugget.

And lots of gut pain. I’m not a praying man, but I said a few words to anyone up there who might be listening. That’s the level of pain I’m experiencing.

So now, along with the plethora of pills I take, I added Metamucil to my daily routine tonight.

(Really, WordPress? You recognize ‘Metamucil’ but not ‘WordPress’?)

Marlo says it takes twelve hours before I’ll notice anything.

Which is fine with me; I don’t need to wake up at three a.m. to dash to the porcelain palace.

On the plus side, I got my booster shot ten hours ago and so far I’m only experiencing mild shoulder pain. Which is blocked out by the need to take a fucking shit.

I’m constipated. Each word is accompanied with a grunt of frustration.

Yesterday, I felt I’d turned a corner.

Today, I think it was a roundabout.

And I’m still circling, looking for the right exit.