The Bloody Doors Off

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.

The light
Begin to bleed
Begin to breathe
Begin to speak
D’you know what?
I love you better now

I am falling
Like a stone
Like a storm
Being born again
Into the sweet morning fog

D’you know what?
I love you better now

I’m falling
And I’d love to hold you now
I’ll kiss the ground
I’ll tell my mother
I’ll tell my father
I’ll tell my loved one
I’ll tell my brothers
How much I love them

The Morning Fog, Kate Bush

I’ve been stuck on this for half an hour.

What to talk about.

Like my short plays, I seem to be running out of ideas.

Trying not to repeat myself.

I need inspiration.

Between the teeth and the scam.

I’m struggling to catch my breath.

Metaphorically.

I can’t even find a proper ending to this post.

Whelp.

I ain’t shit-canned.

They said they think of me as part of the family.

Which was awesome to hear.

They recommended I inform MasterCard, and file a fraud claim..

For those keeping track, I’ve reported to the credit card company (who won’t open a dispute because I’m the one who bought the fucking cards), and initiated a report with Toronto Police Service.

In other news, the left side of my teeth have been professionally cleaned (the right side happens on Thursday). Yes, I’m a wuss. I got freezing done.

Life goes on.

Woke up before 5:30am to the sound of a cat puking up a hairball.

This is a metaphor for my day.

I’m in the dentist chair this morning.

And probably seeing a contract terminated this afternoon.

I’m just glad last night’s Sing For Your Supper went so well.

I think Marlo and I are starting to hit a groove with hosting/producing.

Things can be improved.

Things can always be improved.

But it was far less awkward than when we started back in May.

It’s good to enjoy the little victories.

To be honest, I wish they were pulling teeth today.

Waiting until August is gonna weigh on me.

We’re planning to spend a week at a cottage in August.

Just after.

It seems so far away.

You remember how you couldn’t wait until Christmas morning?

The anticipation of what you’ll find under the tree?

How you couldn’t sleep the night before, even though if you didn’t, “Santa won’t stop at the house”?

“All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth…”

Well, that’s not gonna happen.

Looks like I’ve got coal in my stocking this morning.

I miss fish & chips.

Lemme be specific.

I miss fish & chips from Pumperknickle’s at BCE Place, every Friday at lunch.

I miss going into an office.

Riding the streetcar from the Loop to Bay and King.

Passing Klaus! (since closed) and Neinkamper just after Parliament. I had funny voices in my head when I would approach those stores (near as I could tell, it was furniture and lighting).

One of the drawbacks from working at home. Where I’m normally making a grilled cheese for lunch.

3 slices. Grilled.

Decadent.

There are pluses.

I roll out of bed and I’m at my office.

Unlimited coffee.

I can run laundry during the day.

But I’d trade it all for a full-time job/contract back in the Financial District.

Of course, July looks to be busy.

I’m sure I said the same thing about June.

This time I mean it.

Provided I don’t get fired off of one of my contracts tomorrow.

I have no reason to believe this is the case.

But you know what they say. Shit happens in 3s.

Scammed.

Teeth.

???

Yeah, gonna be sweating this one for the next 18 hours.

Dawn breaks, there is blue in the sky
Your face before me
Though I don’t know why
Thoughts disappearing like tears from the Moon

Waiting here, as I sit by the stone
They came before me
Those men from the Sun
Signs from the heavens say I am the one

Now you’re here, I can see your light
This light that I must follow
You, you may take my life away, so far away
Now I know I must leave your spell
I want tomorrow

I Want Tomorrow, Enya

Nothing cryptic.

I’m back in the dentist chair Tuesday.

To see the dental hygienist.

Although they initially told me that would be step 2.

After the teeth pulling.

Still.

Have I mentioned how much I hate the dentist?

Not hate.

Scared.

I can’t stand the noise of the drill.

I hate getting frozen.

The one time I was fine at the dentist office, is when they sedated me to take out my wisdom teeth.

Which Dr. Sugarman says she can’t do this time around.

Because of the medications I’m on.

She’s not an anesthesiologist.

Which is fair.

Hopefully the laughing gas will calm me..

Ugh. Chills just thinking about them pulling a tooth.

This is, in part, why my teeth are so messed up.

The other 90% is my own damned fault.

Of course, being freelance means I have no dental coverage.

So this is all out-of-pocket.

Which I’d be in better shape if I hadn’t just gotten scammed.

When it rains, it pours.

So I’m watching one of those Consumer Cellular commercials just now.

And I realize.

I’m their targeted demographic.

A discount cell phone provider (who I think is only available in the U.S. anyway) is targeting me.

Okay.

My age range.

Still.

Which then reminds me, I’ll be turning 55 in October.

Kevin and Wayne both retired at 55. Wayne and Donna moved to Alberta to be with the kids and grandkids.

Kevin plays golf 4 times a week (conservative guess).

My point is.

I’m never gonna be able to retire.

I have a modest (tiny) pension with CIBC World Markets. It was supposed to be my career trajectory. Move up in the company, maybe manage the Desktop Publishing department.

Getting laid off in 2008, not the best time.

It did lead me to a new company, but that only lasted four years.

And I’ve been freelancing ever since.

Some years as a freelancer were good.

Some. Not so much.

I came so close to landing a full-time job this spring. It was between me and one other candidate.

I got the “he’s a better fit of us” talk.

And weeks later, they’re using me as a freelancer.

(Yes, I wonder if this was their plan, all along. Not that the work I’m doing now would be considered full-time.)

My point is.

I can’t afford to retire.

I’m gonna work until either I die, or am physically incapable.

That shit’s depressing.

And we still need to make out our wills.

Not that I have much to pass on. But I sure as hell don’t want the government to get their mitts on it.

And now I’m depressed.

Way to go, Koster.

Got another scam email today.

I wasn’t the only one.

Clearly the account had been hacked and sent out to everyone on her address list.

Really obvious too.

Especially with Happy [Day of the Week]! in the subject headline.

Wish the last one was as recognizable.

I was tempted to fuck with them.

You know.

Payback.

Like when air duct cleaning services call, and I tell them I have no ducts to clean, only geese.

But I got smart.

Again, wish I’d gotten smart the first time.

I’ve shouldered.

A lot.

This week.

But that.

That’s my limit.

No more.

I don’t think.

I’m scared.

That I can’t.

Handle the burden.