The Bloody Doors Off

I spent 3 minutes writing and editing the title.

Because that’s what I do.

Edit myself.

I’m so damned careful around words. I know how they can injure; I’ve been on the receiving end. And yet I can’t speak the words, because I was never directly verbally abused.

That’s a lie.

And there I am. Again.

Editing.

Let me qualify. Bullied.

Why am I so scared of that word? That I have to pull it apart and twist it inside out to find another way, a less frightening way, to say it?

The moment he entered our lives, I was. I wasn’t happy about it. It meant that my mom and my dad weren’t getting back together. (Which as an adolescent, I didn’t fully understand why my parents were divorced. It turns out, for a Very Good Reason.) He was was dating my mom, he was moving in with us, they were getting married. I tried to accept it but there was something I just couldn’t get past.

And it was mutual.

He showed open disdain, would often belittle things I said or did (when he first moved in, I left out a tape recorder with all my favourite television theme songs; the next day, he’d taped over it, saying “whoever listens to this is fuckin’ retarded”.)

When I was. 17? 18? It was after they’d sold the house (which naturally I was against) and my brother, mom and step-father, and myself were living in a 2+ condo in north Scarborough. I was still in high school.

He hit me.

One time.

My mom, god bless her, stepped in and said he’d never do that again. If she had to choose between her son and him, she picked me.

So yeah. That was the low point.

My 20s were rocky. I edited myself out of family events. In my early 30s, at a party I did attend, he pulled me aside and told me I needed to do better. For my mom.

He was right. I wasn’t just punishing him. I was punishing her. And that broke my heart.

So I started trying to do better.

And, over time, things got better between him and me. So much so that, now, a few years after her death, we can end a phone conversation with “love you”.

I’m two seconds away from deleting this post.

Or at least editing it.

Yeah, I was right.

I’ve never done cocaine.

Go with me here.

I have horrible sinuses. I can’t sleep at night unless I use a prescription-strength nasal spray before bed. And sometimes, like thirty minutes ago (I struggled whether or not to say ’30 minutes’) my nose’ll stuff up so bad I can’t breathe without it.

And it reminded me.

See? I didn’t go off on a long tangent to get there.

Back when I worked in an office (names and places redacted) where the group would get together by the photocopiers every Friday at shift change, we’d all been invited to a Christmas party. We all went. Had a great time.

As the group made plans to splinter (some, like me, were headed home to sleep; the others were off to a club), a couple of the guys ducked into the main floor powder room to uh, powder their noses.

And I wondered why, like Rudolph, I hadn’t been invited to this particular reindeer game.

End of story.

Until tonight.

When that memory comes back and hits me upside the head. Because I needed my own hit.

Where was I going with this?

Right. It made me wonder. If they had offered, would I have accepted? Or declined?

The honest answer is.

I don’t know.

Instacart has M&M Meat Shops on their website.

This is a game-changer. Meat. People, I cannot emphasize this enough. Shepherd’s Pie. Meatloaf. Cheesy stuffed potatoes.

And I’d only have to heat it up.

I live with vegetarians. My meat shelf is barely high enough to hold my margarine tub. No offence to my wife and son, but I don’t bulk cook because half the time there’d be no place to store it. And I know Marlo will argue that point; and she’s right, she’s got a Tetris-like ability to sort stuff. But it holds me back from buying all the ingredients I’d need.

So having stuff already prepared? Means I’m not eating Stouffer’s four nights a week.

I ran through their site and filled my grocery cart. I giddily selected a delivery time.

My mouth watered.

The screen went grey.

They don’t deliver to my area yet. Yet. YET.

Then why offer it, dingus?

I flew too close to the sun.

And my wings are singed.

The day ended on a bright note, however.

Tonight my son announced he was making pasta, and asked if I’d like some.

Fuck. You.

This morning is proving especially difficult.

For the past hour, I’ve been vacillating between extreme outrage and depression.

All manufactured.

It’s not real. Not the reason for the anger or the downbeat.

No.

It’s Harold.

He’s picking fights in my brain, trying to stir up shit.

Oh that’s right, not everyone knows who Harold is.

Harold is the voice of despair that lives in the back of my head.

He’s been quiet the last while.

Or I thought he had been.

I’m beginning to suspect he’s also behind my writer’s block.

Insidious, Harold is.

There’s a small sense of relief, now that I’ve recognized his handiwork. Could’ve picked a fight over the stupidest non-reason. You know. Bibbidy bobbidy bullshit. (I came up with that line for a short play. I like it. I don’t care what you think.)

Now if I could just shake him loose.

The bugger’s got sharp fingernails. Claws. Talons.

At least I’m starting to get my thoughts out again.

Let’s not make a big deal out of this.

It’s early days yet.

I’m in, for lack of a better word, a major funk.

It’s easy to blame Covid for this. Being in lockdown for months, barely leaving the apartment only to walk Auggie/check the mail/go to the pharmacy for prescriptions.

Work has been sporadic, but better than the entirety of last year. And we’re planning to take a week at a cottage for a much-needed break from the same four walls.

Creatively, though. I’m dry as a bone. And it’s not so much pissing me off, as just depressing me. I have friends who are trying to encourage me to write with them. And friend, lemme tell ya, the stuff we’ve written in the past is gold. Some of the finest ideas generated came with writing with Kate and Jess.

So why resist? No, scratch that. I’m not resisting. I’m afraid.

That I’m out of ideas. That anything I put down on paper is gonna be shit. (And yes, I get the irony of saying this as I write for the first time in ages in this blog.) I need to bite down on this bullet and not care if it blows up in my face.

Tonight it hit me that, in just a few days, I’m turning 54.

And it scared the shit out of me.

I began thinking. I’m not ready to let this go.

And it scared the absolute shit out of me.

Then I tried to update my blog, to discover WordPress updated their layout and fucked everything up.

And it scared the ever-lovin’ shit out of me.

The past week or so, I’ve been a bit obsessed with mortality; namely, mine.

A morbid topic for a cheery time of year, to be sure.

But when I had a tinge of chest pain (mostly indigestion, I’m sure), it started the mind whirling.

And of course, being me, I haven’t wanted to say anything because I don’t want to worry anyone, especially Marlo. Plus, I know I’m being ridiculous and over-worrisome. But my mom passed from a widow-maker heart attack, and it scares me that I wouldn’t be around to take care of my family.

And I won’t publish this until I’ve talked with her, because that’s just fucking unfair for her to first read this in a blog post.

Here’s the thing they don’t tell you, growing up. When you hit a certain age, inevitably these thoughts creep in. And you wonder about making a will, and planning for what is, aside from taxes, inevitable. We’re all going to die. Some day.

I just don’t want it to happen for another 30 or 40 years.

Despite searching for work yet again, the frustrations that bring, the money worries, my lower libido (a topic for another time), well, those are tiny negatives in a world that is extremely positive for me. A wife and son, good friends, a roof over my head. Family. Three animals that don’t exactly get along, but are willing to ultimately cohabitate.

And these are things I don’t want to lose. So I get a pang in my chest, and I freak out.

And being me, I internalize it.

Because, as I said, I don’t want to worry anyone.

Not that they’re coming fast and furious. I can count on two fingers the number of times this happened. And I had a heart stress test last year and the results came back clean.

Been a while.

Aside from a few dips, mostly in the evenings, I’ve been pretty happy. I’m producing a Fringe show, my contract was extended at work, I’m happily married and a step-father.

But I’m still learning. Oh yes.

Like tonight. Marlo and I went to see Grapes of Wrath and Crash Test Dummies at the Phoenix. And earlier, as well as before the show, we’d been talking about a retreat coming up for her, and plans for her and Maddy to take a few days.

And it actually dawned on me. Like I hadn’t had this thought before. Dunno why.

But I could do the same thing. I said so, and she agreed.

How awesome is my wife?

Of course, I have nothing planned save for the Fringe. But I could. And that’s pretty incredible to finally… accept.

I’m living my best life. And tonight I realized it could be even better. Because I just gave myself permission.