The Bloody Doors Off

Here’s the thing about mental health.

My mental health. I wouldn’t presume to speak for others.

Ninety percent of the time, I am on solid footing. My meds work, my stress is manageable, I am clear-minded. I am, for lack of a better word, myself. What you see is who I am.

Then there’s the last ten percent. Something goes out of balance and I’m left reeling. Out of this, I’d say five percent are momentary anxiety attacks. I’m caught in a brief tsunami of self-doubt, a trigger I didn’t see coming flips the switch and I need to take protective measures to weather the storm. But they don’t last long; I won’t hazard a guess at how long, but they are temporary.

So that leaves five percent.

This one lingers, like bronchitis. It gets in the way of everything. There are gaps where I feel fine, but those don’t last. I hold on for dear life when I have a lucid moment, determined to ride it out for as long as I can, but fearful because it won’t. This five percent feels like ninety percent. I am surrounded by funhouse mirrors in a glass maze, unable to locate the exit.

All I can do is remind myself, that this will pass. I will gain equilibrium again. And pray I don’t leave damage in my wake.

I currently reside in that five percent.

See you on the other side.

There’s something about the first snowfall of the season.

The silence as the flakes drift down from the sky. The way it carpets the ground in white.

It’s a beautiful sight.

What’s not beautiful is being woken by a dog who really needs to pee.

It’s nearly thirty minutes later and I’m still groggy. Hopefully the coffee helps.

Considered going back to bed, but Marlo needs to be woken in an hour for a Zoom rehearsal and if I crash now, I ain’t getting up anytime soon.

Yes, I’ve noticed the switch.

I used to wake up between 5:30 and 6:30 each morning without fail. I’d be tired, but the internal alarm clock was insistent. Now it seems to be on permanent snooze. The past couple of days, I’ve napped for several hours in the early evening, and was still tired enough to go to bed by midnight.

So, let’s see what the day has in store, I guess?

Okay, so it’s officially a month before Christmas. No getting around that.

Hanukkah starts this weekend.

I used to be all about the holidays.

In my twenties and thirties, I owned a large, artificial Christmas tree. I’d spend hours disentangling the lights, sorting the ornaments. When Suzi and I were together, I joined in on her family’s traditions. Decorating the living room, hanging the tree (yes, they anchored it to the ceiling, quite a smart idea), there was a Christmas eve service with a live pageant (and live animals), a tortiere for dinner, and listening to CHFI on the radio. And every year, among other presents exchanged, everyone gave a tree ornament.

I still have them. In storage.

Barb is gone now. Suzi and Trish, live on the west coast. And over time, Christmas became less important. I went from a six-foot tree to a table-top pre-lit one, to none at all. I’m not sure what changed exactly. Except it did. Last year, the pandemic ground everything to a halt, so we didn’t even have the benefit of dinner at my brother Kevin’s. (Turkey roll from M&Ms, mashed potatoes, vegetable medley.)

The other night I was walking Auggie in the Distillery, which has set up their annual Christmas Market Winter Village. The countdown clock is still there, ticking down to the twenty-fifth. As I braced myself to endure the crowd, all I could think was, “here we go again”.

When did I get so cynical around the holidays? Why did they stop mattering?

All is not completely lost. I still make it a point to watch A Charlie Brown Christmas and It’s A Wonderful Life every year. And sometimes White Christmas. If a theatre shows IAWL on the big screen, I plant myself in one of the seats with a big bag of popcorn.

But I’ve always gone alone. So it’s kind of bittersweet.

Also, it doesn’t snow. Not like when we were kids. Every year a hockey rink was built in our backyard. Freshly packed snow provided snow forts on my street.

I don’t miss shovelling the driveway.

I just realized I have no conclusion for this post.

When do you decide enough is enough?

Is there a moment you decide it’s not worth fighting and embrace the unknown?

How scary would that be?

Or is it better to rage, rage against the dying of the light?

To plant your flag and say “not one step further”.

The incalculable courage in the face of overwhelming odds.

For one more day.

Then another.

And another.

Because tomorrow is unwritten.

And could be full of miracles.

I just spent half an hour in the eye of a tumultuous hurricane of self-doubt. The realization that, except for my bipolar 2, a lot of my ailments are my fault. They were preventable.

That sat like a tremendous boulder on my chest. The words didn’t make sense to me.

Thankfully, Marlo was there to catch my fall.

It was dizzying.

This post was supposed to be humorous. Even after explaining the above, which I hadn’t planned to just yet because it is still raw. I’d had a weird train of thought that led me to Urban Dictionary to learn the definition of the following:

Pillow Princess: A girl in a lesbian relationship who is usually a bottom. She likes to recieve rather than give and she is also most likely to stop texting when she sees you’re also typing.

Urban Dictionary

Obviously meant as a slur. But why did it even pop up in my head? What context?

Oh.

Sunovabitch.

It’s a new character speaking about a third person. For the idea I’m still not sure if I’m gonna work on.

I’m looking for something to write.

Itching. Burning.

My heart racing.

Searching for words.

There must be something to talk about.

My hands are shaking.

It’s like when you have a full bladder. You know you need to take a pish. Half an hour ago. It’s built up, and you stand there at the urinal, ready to go.

Only. Nothing.

It’s blocked.

And you know. You know.

It’ll break through.

And it’s going to feel amazing.

The flow of words, being typed on the screen.

Sweet. Relief.

So, stop building already.

Dammit.

I’m literally vibrating.

Music. I need music.

And pudding. Christ, I need pudding.

I haven’t written a word in two days. Very frustrated by that. But I feel I was/am being repetitive if I relay yet another panic attack. I’m trying to look beyond that, here, if nowhere else.

At least my imagination hasn’t fled. I was out earlier walking Auggie and had stopped into the GW General Store in the Distillery. The Winter Market doesn’t run on Mondays (small mercies) so even though it is populated by people who didn’t know that, the crowds are not an impediment. We had made a loop of the store, not finding anything of too much interest, and walking to the exit, when I noticed the owner unpacking a box. Out came an “open/closed” sign. I was instantly attracted to it. Knew instinctively that this belonged to Marlo. (When she’s busy with work, or is writing, she can put out “closed” so we know she’s not to be disturbed.)

She loved it.

And that is the highlight of my day.

Oh, talked to my psychiatrist today. He suggested turning my recent episodes into a play. Nope. Nope. A Song For Rachel is as semi-autobiographical as it’s gonna get in a play format.

See, here’s the difference. I spew out all my shit on a blank computer screen. Twice I’ve deleted before posting. The reason’s not important. My point is, I don’t feel like I’m writing for others. I’m writing for myself. I allow others to read it if they choose. But aside from a few reactions on Facebook when I post a link, I don’t know who’s reading it, if anyone. And yes, I’m astonished anyone gives a shit about my life enough to follow this.

If I put this in a play, the only way it would work is a one-person show (which I abhor, with few exceptions) and fuck no, that ain’t gonna happen. Then I know someone is out there. Listening. Judging. Probably having the same reaction I would, if I were in my audience. “Who the fuck do I think I am?”

That twain never shall meet.

Alright, that’s all I’ve got. Gonna post this and go watch The Voice.

Oh gods.

I’m one of those people. Who watch The Voice.

And I admitted it.

Yeah, that’d never make it in a one-man show.

This post is gonna piss off my friend Mollie.

I went to a movie tonight. By myself. Intentionally.

Normally MJ and I would check out the blockbuster offerings (and sometimes heckle them) but tonight I needed some personal space. So I booked a ticket to Ghostbusters: Afterlife.

It was delightful. And it quieted the almost non-stop nattering in my head through to the final end credits scene.

But I’m home now, and the chatter is slowly rising again. It’s been a hurricane up in my brain. I don’t know where the anxiety is being manifested, just that it comes crashing in like angry waves against stoic rock. The lighthouse keeps the ships at bay so they don’t smash against the craggy outcrop, but the light.

Flickers.

And I know that’s Harold at the switch.

He’s not gonna win.

I’m confident of that.

But I grow tired of fighting all the time.

For the past 45 minutes, I’ve been repeating “it’s not real” to counteract my irrational feelings of despair.

I think it’s working.

I will stare into the sun until its light doesn’t blind me
I will walk unto the fire until its heat doesn’t burn me
And I will feed the fire

Into the Fire, Sarah Mclachlan

Today was a good day. I woke up far too early but there was no overwhelming dread. I played scrabble with my brother Kevin (beat him two out of three) and motivated myself to travel to the pharmacy to pick up prescriptions and a few sundries.

I couldn’t decide on toothpaste.

The anxiety was palpable. I literally froze. For how long I don’t know.

But I got past it. By the time I’d boarded the streetcar for home, the moment was resolved.

I’m back to feeling good.

Until the memory of the attack flashes across my eyes. And I spiral because I had a meltdown over the stupidest fucking thing who can’t choose a goddamned toothpaste does it whiten? is tartar control better? So many fucking choices and I’ve got significantly less teeth to take care of now and I want to prevent losing more than the one that’ll probably be done in six months. And the Christmas Market Winter Market starts up tonight and traffic is gonna be a nightmare for over a month and I’ll need to carry I.D. in order to walk Auggie through the Distillery.

And I’m going to be fine. Recognize the trigger and breathe through it.

Of course I’m going to be fine.

I bought the fucking toothpaste.