The Bloody Doors Off

I talked with my psychiatrist today about increasing my medication.

Yeah, that was a conversation I’d been dreading. Because there’s that little voice (shut up, Harold) that says you must be failing if you need to up your meds.

It might kill my writing spark. Or it might have the opposite effect.

I’m just tired of Harold’s almost nightly visits.

I just wrote a fucking mind-bending post about Harold coming back.

WordPress ate it.

I can’t recreate it.

I was looking to insert a video. Only WordPress wanted me to upgrade, which. No.

I really felt vulnerable in the post.

Giving Harold voice on the screen, and not just in my head.

And it’s gone.

Fuck.

Yes, Harold, I am aware there is a “save draft” icon next to “publish”.

I am today years old. I’m sure I saw it before. I don’t know why I didn’t take advantage of it.

Knock, knock.

What?

Knock. Knock.

Who’s there?

Me.

Me who?

You’re the one trying to recreate the beginning of the previous post. Maybe it’s not me. There’s a thought I hadn’t considered. “Harold”, as you’ve named me, could just be a construct for you to absolve yourself when despair washes over you. Blame Harold. It’s Harold’s fault. Not yours.

And no, you’re not crazy.

I’m taking over for a minute. Hope you don’t mind.

Damned right I saved a draft right now.

I’m not taking blame for your despair. You can’t put it on me. Accept maybe that your anti-depressant needs an adjustment. Or maybe you should lay off the gummies. ‘Cuz you see me a bit more on those occasions.

I’m sorry. I’m blowing your mind. You can’t handle that I’m driving. That maybe I’ll make more rational decisions. Maybe I’ll unlock a part of you that you didn’t know existed.

Or maybe. Maybe I’m having a break.

Because, like that, Harold’s gone.

I’m gonna watch the Blue Jays play the Astros.

More days like today please.

Wasn’t falling asleep on my face all morning.

Two clients sent in work requests, which I handled with ease and aplomb.

(I like that word. Aplomb. Why don’t we use it more often?)

Had a productive rehearsal with the cast for Last Call.

Grooved with Jim Clayton Jazz on Facebook.

And now prepping dinner for me and the boy.

So yeah.

More days like today.

.

.

.

But what if it isn’t?

Tonight’s regrets brought to you by the amygdala, the hippocampus, the cerebellum, and the prefrontal cortex.

I’ve done stupid shit. We all have.

Alcohol abuse runs in the family. My grandmother (on my dad’s side), my father.

Me.

I was in the last year of high school. Nineteen years old. And despite my best efforts, following the Koster footsteps down the hazy, boozy, path.

I kept a bottle in the closet in my bedroom. Once, at a bar and I had no more money for beer, I convinced a poor sod I’d write a piece on him in exchange for a drink. (I was in a co-op program at The Scarborough Mirror at the time. In a drunken stupor, I stumbled across the set of 1980s television show Night Heat and convinced the security guard I was on assignment. Turned out, one of the actors was from Scarborough, which landed me an invitation back to set and a puff piece for the paper. But I digress.)

I hit bottom the 3rd night of a bender after a friend had committed suicide. Barely able to stand, I’d made my way out of a strip club to a McDonald’s for a burger, puked it (and everything else) out in a back alley, and then headed back for another drink.

I quit cold turkey that night. Was sober for over a decade before I even considered the possibility that I had the willpower to try a drink again. Since then, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been inebriated because of alcohol.

But I’ve done stupid shit. Sometimes I think of that poor guy, who just wanted to be heard, and instead had a punk ass kid con him out of three bucks so he could stay drunk. I worry that I’ve treated people badly.

So yeah, that started my shame spiral this evening.

Dovetailed into failed relationships.

My breakdown seven years ago. I was so fucking shaky when I got out. To this day, I think I should’ve stayed locked up an extra week or two. I wasn’t ready.

I think I am now, though.

Despite the utter shit I’ve done, the muck I’ve waded through, I’ve arrived at a good place in my life.

I just don’t wanna fuck it up.

And I wish I knew how to make it up to that guy in the bar.

You know Judas was in on it. Even if he denied it 3 times. And hey, he got paid in silver.

Can you tell I have issues with religion?

I’m on my fourth cup of coffee in as many hours.

That’s how you can tell if I’m busy. Like counting rings on a tree to gauge its age, look to the amount of caffeine I’ve consumed to see how busy (or not) I am. When I’m engaged with work, I’ll have two cups. When I’m bored (like I have been all last week and now), I consume copious amounts.

And I could still take a nap.

I have an odd, recurring dream. It involves travel, usually to places I’d never consider visiting. Not because it wouldn’t be interesting, because in my dream it usually is. But it also involves byzantine airports and rescheduled flights. Even the seating on the plane is strange. And it feels so real, I’d almost think I was remote viewing. I can feel myself standing on the cold, wind-swept streets of the capital of Czechoslovakia (hey I spelled that without an assist), or the feel of warm sand between my toes on the beaches of Antigua.

I took a trip once I’d never gotten to finish. I was in Ireland, and was supposed to spend a couple of days in London before a week in Amsterdam, but had to come home because of an illness in the family. It’s a trip I vowed to finish some day. But the weeks pass by and I have new responsibilities and god, I have a CPAP now and there’s no way I’m backpacking through Europe with that so I’d have to stay in B&Bs or hotels which automatically changes the feel of what the trip was meant to be. And this was my solo trip. I have a family now. I want to take holidays with them. And I don’t think a walking tour of Amsterdam is high on their list. Understandably so.

And shit, the latest mini-vacation we’d planned for got cancelled by the Ontario government with their lockdown and stay-at-home order. I’m not sure how, isolating as we would be in a cottage 20 minutes outside of the nearest town would cause mass panic and make us a super-spreader event, but that’s how it is. We’re stuck for at least another month of this crap.

Maybe that’s why the dreams. I can’t go anywhere in my waking life. So.

I could go on a much longer rant about how the government has fucked all this up, that the anti-maskers are selfish assholes who — not that I’d ever consciously wish it on anyone — should get the ‘rona. But that’s pretty much just spitting in the wind. It’ll eventually ricochet and wind up hitting me square in the face.

And that’s the fourth coffee done. Back to waiting oh so patiently for potential work to trickle in.

When I hear that in my head, it sounds like John Oliver. Which makes me wonder if that’s where I got it from.

Most people would choose Morgan Freeman or Samuel L. Jackson narrating their lives.

I got John fucking Oliver.

Let that sink in.

Better yet.

Don’t.

I’m writing.

At least there’s that.

Not exactly the choice I’d make, but it’s something.

Is anyone else warm?

Just me?

Okay.

The pain around my chest has lessened.

My heart still aches.

I’m feeling raw.

Yesterday’s post did a number on me.

I’m really feeling this one.

My chest is tight. I chewed baby aspirin just in case. I’m fine.

No really.

“What is Athens?”

Jeopardy is on in the background.

And I was wow, really off-base.

The answer was, (because I know you’re dying to know), “What is Istanbul?”

I find I’m wrong about a lot of things.

But then, aren’t we all?

I don’t know where I’m going with this.

Can I claim PTSD?

Am I going to have to continue collecting CRB?

I got an interesting email two weeks ago. It portended a very. Good. Thing.

Something wonderful.

But I haven’t heard the follow-up. And no, I was not contacted by a Nigerian Prince looking to wire transfer me thirty million dollars.

I dunno, maybe it’s the bi-polar (2) in me. I can’t be happy with intangibles.

Hell, I’m still hung up on waiting for a client to send in edits they spoke to me about a week ago. I know the job will come in, but when? I’m not busy now, it’s the perfect opportunity. But nope, it’ll show when I’m neck deep in another project with a tight deadline, and I’ll have to burn the late night oil and drink coffee to keep my eyes from unfocussing.

Now I want coffee.

This post is pretty pointless.

But I’ll take the alliteration.