The Bloody Doors Off

I clean up nicely. Glad I got a haircut in before the Ontario government decides to shut everything down again.

Oh c’mon, you know it’s gonna happen.

Gods I’m tired.

Woke up at 6am.

Can’t fall back asleep.

Well I could.

If I didn’t have “All Star” by Smashmouth running through my head.

Somebody once told me
The world was gonna roll me
I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed

I’m definitely in ‘buyer beware’ mode of late.

I question everything, when it comes to money.

Which I suppose could be useful.

Making more thoughtful purchases.

But the more impulsive side of me, the problem I have when I’m manic, looms large.

I still haven’t decided whether or not to take Lithium.

Granted, I’ve been weening myself off the Abilify. So far, that’s been going fine. No adverse side effects. My mood hasn’t nosedived.

So naturally I wonder if it’s been having an effect on me at all.

Hmmm. I increased my Wellbutrin just before. That could be balancing things out.

I should consult with my pharmacist before starting Lithium, just to check for possible interactions with other medications.

Right. Time to veg on the couch and hope work comes in.

Oh. And haircut today. Huzzah.

I got nuthin’ tonight.

Yet another consequence of Covid is not seeing my family in person.

Maybe twice this year I’ve seen my brother Kevin mask-to-mask, where we’d socially distance-drink Tim’s coffee and play Scrabble.

And we got to visit my mother-in-law Renee last month. Again, socially distant, all protocols taken.

But for the most part, it’s been phone calls and DUO (because I adamantly don’t want an iPhone, we can’t Facetime).

My want of an Android phone is ridiculous.

Even Kevin switched over to iPhone. And he’s the less tech-savvy one of the three brothers.

I digress.

But I haven’t been in the same room with my father or step-father in over 400 days.

Wayne and Donna are living in Alberta, to be with their kids and grandkids.

He and I just talked.

Wayne says they are coming to visit in either late September or late October, provided Covid keeps waning.

That’ll be an emotional homecoming.

Ever see the show Hello/Goodbye? There’s multiple versions of it around the world. The premise is the host walks through Pearson International Airport and talks with people who are either waiting for a loved one to arrive, or sending one away. It never failed to tug at my heartstrings. Shame it wasn’t renewed.

I never got to say goodbye to my mom.

She passed on October 5th, 2016 from a heart attack. When we got to the hospital, the doctor told us there was nothing they could do, and to fortify ourselves and say good-bye.

But as we prepared to the leave the waiting room, a nurse entered and told us she’d had another heart attack and they couldn’t revive her.

We still went in to see her.

I remember mum’s face, contorted in pain. Her eyes open, as if staring into the great beyond.

But it wasn’t her any more.

I still miss her.

I always will.

Today I provided my recent credit card statement to the business partner who is discussing the situation at the company.

In doing so, I discovered a NEW suspect charge on my card. $180 to a photography studio.

Even the name of the company is suspect.

I’ve blocked my card and asked for a replacement. Also opened a dispute, which is gonna take up to a month to complete.

To the hacker who got a hold of my card:

Don’t press me, motherfucker.

I’m feeling dangerous stupid.

I figured out the charge.

Okay.

I have a title for today’s post.

I’ve entered the Toronto Fringe based on a title alone.

AND got in.

So. Yeah.

(8 hours later.)

Yeah. I got nothin’.

Even my dreams were boring.

Not that I can really remember them.

When I was a kid, I had such vivid dreams.

Flying, just high enough to clear the overhead wires.

A continuing story about arriving on a parallel earth.

That one was fun.

I had such an imagination as a child.

And today?

Nothing.

Nada.

Zip.

Zilch.

Bupkiss.

I can’t help but think.

If it’s this bad now.

What happens when I take lithium?

I need to be creative.

It’s my lifeblood.

My soul.

Take that away.

And what am I?

I’m feeling frustrated vulnerable tonight.

I just had the most interesting conversation with myself.

I was witty. I made valid points.

I changed my own mind.

I’m in trouble.

Aren’t I.

Fuck that noise.

It’s a panic attack.

Harold is riding in on a horse.

I recognize it’s a panic attack.

That’s a good step.

I can deal with that.

Because it’ll pass.

Music.

I need music.

Covid’s really done a number on me.

It’s done a number on us.

All of us.

But this blog is about me.

And I’m not narcissistic.

But.

This is about me.

So suck it.

I think, if I’d been living alone.

Covid would’ve broken me.

I certainly wouldn’t be dealing with my teeth.

Too concerned with my mental health.

(Probably would’ve still been scammed. Snort.)

I’m thankful.

For Marlo.

For Coltrane.

They help me stay planted..

Keep sane.

I’m not sure if I ever talked about what led up to my breakdown.

Almost 8 years now.

Earlier in the year, I’d faced eviction from my apartment because my landlord (a rental company) were being real dicks to everyone as an excuse for renoviction. I was days late, and they were quick with the papers.

(Too quick, honestly. I gotta feeling they had a draft folder waiting to fill in the blanks at the first opportunity.)

I went to the Landlord/Tenant Board.

They sent a representative who didn’t know his ass from a backhoe.

Granted an injunction.

Served them a money order for arrears, and gave 60 days notice.

I was already planning to leave.

But it was on my terms.

Yeah, that was April.

I remember the stress of it.

I’d even called the Suicide Hotline, I was feeling so low.

Needed someone I didn’t know to talk me down.

I was switching my anti-depressants and was on the lowest dose of the old prescription.

It brought about intense paranoia. Lasted until I was finally on my new medication.

Then came the migration.

Finding a new apartment, and being convinced to move into an apartment with a roommate to share costs.

I say convinced, not because I was against the idea, but I just had a gut feeling the person I was going to share a living space with wasn’t going to be a great fit, even though we had some interests, and friends, in common.

So we searched, and eventually found a basement 2-bedroom on Greenwood, where I’d live until 2018.

I moved in.

He followed.

He drank.

A lot.

I started suffering a form of PTSD, reliving all the times my father got drunk, passed out, couldn’t keep his pants on…

So my mental state was being chipped away at.

It’s fall. Late September, early October.

I’m still smoking. Always outside. Couldn’t stand the stench. Bad enough I smoked indoors in the last apartment, wasn’t going to repeat that mistake.

My psyche is unravelling. The roommate is a nightmare. Work FINALLY started coming in, but I’d been stressing since I was laid off in September 2012. (I don’t care if it really means fired, I’m gonna refer to it as laid off).

That was the year I went camping with Rena. I remember, I was negotiating my exit package from Canaccord Genuity when this all went down.

But this is October 2013 and I’m a match stick waiting to be lit.

It was a Tuesday. October 22.

I had an appointment with my psychiatrist that day. I remember receiving extremely unsettling news. (I draw a blank on what exactly it entailed, it may have been being denies OW, dunno.)

Clearly, I was distraught enough that my doctor wrote a note on the back of his card that started, “Psychiatry Crisis”.

It was a long subway ride back to Greenwood Station.

Got on the bus.

Took the second, single seat behind another passenger.

Who listened to music way too loud.

And bobbled his head to the melody.

In that moment.

I justified murder.

No, you don’t understand.

I was going to follow him off the bus.

It lasted a millisecond.

It shook me to my core.

And then I remembered I had a bottle of sleeping pills.

Because I don’t sleep, otherwise.

Because I fucked myself up by working midnights for 10 years.

Back to the pills.

I considered that a little longer than a millisecond.

So I did one of the smartest things in my life.

Top 5.

I called my friend Scott.

He came over.

We put a heated can of baked beans in a tupperware bowl so I’d have something to eat.

And we caught the bus to Michael Garron Hospital.

How can I help you?

“I’m in crisis.”

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
the score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
a sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
they thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that –
they’d put up even money, now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
and the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake,
so upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
for there seemed but little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
and Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
and when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
there was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
it rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
it knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
for Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place;
there was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile on Casey’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
no stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
defiance gleamed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
and Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
“That ain’t my style,” said Casey. “Strike one,” the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted someone on the stand;
and it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;
he stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
he signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
but Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said: “Strike two.”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and Echo answered fraud;
but one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
and they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
he pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
and now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
the band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
and somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
but there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Casey has struck out.

Ernest Thayer, Casey at the Bat

Waiting for a call back from TPS regarding filing a report for the scam.

I already know the outcome.

They’ll take the information.

But there’s nothing they can do.

I’m running out of pitches.

So I’ll have to eat this loss and struggle to pay it back on my credit card.