The Bloody Doors Off

you’re slipping.

and there’s nothing you can do to stop the slide.

My doctor wants to challenge me, to get me out of my comfort zone. To stop just accepting things that happen to me, but to make things happen. This includes ‘exorcising’ as he calls it, the act of exercising to exorcise my personal demons, and writing. Especially the latter. He makes it a point to tell me that I’m talented, and every day that I haven’t written something is a waste of that talent. He’s suggested I write about the things I’m going through these days, the depression, the lack of work, the struggle to connect to the outside world. And yet I kinda did that already (see ‘A Song for Rachel’, a play I’ve been working on for, oh, ages).

Exercising. I like to walk; the issue is I need to motivate myself to start moving. It’s too easy to get comfortable on the couch and watch cable news. Maybe I need a walking partner, someone who needs the same motivation on a regular basis. It would be nice to explore various neighbourhoods, walking tours, with a stop-off in local coffee shops.

As for writing, the simplest solution is the most obvious. And so, if she’s reading this, I’m gonna ask my favourite writing partner in the world: Kate, you wanna build a snowman?

Something I’ve discovered about being bi-polar, is I sometimes am overcome with a need to do things that could be considered self-destructive.

Most recently, this presented itself as a gambling run at the casinos in Niagara Falls.

(more…)

There once was a boy who loved a girl, and she loved him back.

And yet, it ended.

Because it always ends, it would seem.

Not just relationships, but circumstances. Situations.

I’m tired of endings. I need a new beginning.

When I was at my worst, back in the fall of 2012, before the breakdown, I fantasized of running away. No particular destination in mind, just an escape. Purchase a bus ticket to anywhere and start over.

Obviously I didn’t. Because I was, for lack of a better word, chicken shit. I liked to think it was because I believed things could get better (and they did, after they got worse). But I was scared of making the leap. I’d have to pack up my sleep apnea machine, order all my medications in advance to carry me through the first three months gone. It got overwhelming. Everything overwhelmed.

And things got worse. Then they got better. I applauded myself for sticking it out.

Flash forward to 2016, and I’m wondering if I made the right choice. The urge to run has resurfaced, and it’s stronger than ever. Could I throw my stuff in storage, or my dad’s basement? How far could I get on the meager savings I still have?

Would I be happy?

If I thought the answer was yes, I’d be gone by the time you read this.

I still might.

The temptation is increasing.

Woke up late. I dunno why I can’t wake up with the alarm. I actually wake up before it goes off and force myself back to sleep. And then I ignore the clock. I wonder what would happen if I just got up earlier? Other than spending more hours twiddling my thumbs, searching for work, and watching unintelligent television.

Eventually a shower, dress and run errands. Back home, surfing the ‘net and praying I get a ping regarding the job search. Would it kill them to get back to me? Why am I always chasing? It’s frustrating.

Trying to write in the blog again, on a daily basis. Even if there’s really nothing to say, like today. Retrain my gray matter and maybe it’ll trigger more episodes of wanting to write.

That’s about it for today.

My life is consumed with waiting for things that I have no idea will ever arrive, a job chief among them. No ideas for stories in my head, no drive to write beyond these simple sentences. I need inspiration. I need. Godot.

Must be December 1st. Rent’s due, there may be freelance work (but there may not), still haven’t found a roommate so paying full rent. Distractions aren’t helping.

I’m swallowed in anxiety and am freaking out. Someone put me out of my misery. Or, ya know, help me find a job. Or something. Anything.

Okay, technically it’s 4:15, and it’s only me here.

I’m at work.

And I’m seriously bored.

There’s nothing to do. Except spin in my chair. Which I’ve done.

Should’ve brought a book.

I’ll have plenty of time to read those soon enough.

I’m not good at being idle.

Praying for work to come in, and I don’t think it’s gonna happen. Took a walk upstairs and there were only two people working, and they said they had nothing for me.

So starts the last week of my contract. I can already feel myself checking out.

Someone stimulate me.*

*Put down the cattle prod. I meant intellectually.

So the story I was going to tell, which I waited until tonight to do so, is bittersweet.

I waited because this was our second date. But it just wasn’t there for her. She finds me attractive but she’s not ready to date, apparently. Okay then.