The Bloody Doors Off

I have a story to tell but I’m tired and it’s late, so I guess it’s going to have to wait.

Long story short, I went on a coffee date and it went… very well.

The roommate moved out today. Knew it was coming, but thought it wasn’t until the end of September. And he hadn’t even started packing until yesterday, so my confusion is justified. And there’s still some of his things he’ll need to pick-up.

I’ve been thinking for a while now that I wanted my own place. Now I have it. But I can’t afford it long-term. I can carry it for a while but would prefer (a) to be above ground, and (b) in a one-bedroom.

So the decision I’ve been wrestling with for weeks is, do I continue the search or try for another roommate and hope it works out? Part of the second-guessing has been based on what I’ve seen so far, which is, deplorable. Bed bug reports, over-priced hole in the walls. (I nearly wrote whole in the wall, I’m a bit toasty right now.) And the ones that could be decent say no pets allowed. Which is bullshit.

Short story short, I’m frustrated and it’s depressing me. Which leads to more stress and I’ve been down that road and don’t wanna go back, thank you very much. I’ve said to this day that I think I left too early (scared straight, maybe?)

My printer just made strange noises. No, really.

And now my laptop just got weird.

Distracted much? Yeah, to keep me from thinking. Over thinking. Driving myself crazy.

Fuck. Just drove myself into a panic attack.

Where

I need to be in control. So much so, that I overthink things and self-sabotage.

But nights like tonight, with alcohol imbibed (in moderation), things loosen up and I actually end up… happy. Until I overthink it and then I get wound up again.

There’s a lesson here.

I seriously need something to change. No. I need to change something. It won’t happen for me; I have to take control and make it happen.

Just wish I knew what that something was.

I haven’t written in here for months. I think I got self-conscious, worried about what people would think. I need to remember that doesn’t matter. This is where I get to sort shit out.

I was rediagnosed a year ago, from depression to bi-polar 2 with depressive anxiety. It was explained to me, and I thought I understood just what it meant. And then this week happened, putting shit in perspective. One of the markers of this disease (and yes, it’s a disease) is the compulsive need to be destructive/self-destructive. I fall into the latter category. And while normally a trip to the casino is just a fun jaunt with a friend, this week it turned into something else… The need (yes, not a want, but a need) hit me on either Tuesday or Wednesday. I couldn’t shake it. It kept building and building. The voice in the back of my head tried its damnedest to make it happen, even trying to convince me to take off work an hour early on Thursday night to catch the bus to Niagara. (I didn’t.) Friday was hell. From the time I woke up, the buzz was present. I got myself out the door and started my journey to the bus station to pick up a ticket in advance. And that’s when the war in my brain really kicked into gear. I was able to argue both sides during the week, going and not going, quite reasonably. Long weekend, could be busy, wouldn’t be as fun without my friend Mollie joining. But I fought. I fought hard. I’d ride past the bus terminal and find myself in Kensington Market instead, looking for a distraction. But I couldn’t focus and soon bolted back towards the streetcar to go to the terminal. But another fight ensued; I would go to a movie instead. I changed directions and started south to Queen Street. But another offensive launched in my brain and I took a 180 degree turn back to Dundas. This time I wouldn’t wait for the streetcar and walked from Spadina to Bay Street, stopping off at a Tim Horton’s in a futile attempt to yet again distract me. Even after I got the ticket, the war continued. It was non-refundable but what’s losing $20 over say $200? Did I really wanna do this? Don’t be a fucking wimp, Koster. Go have fun. It actually hurt, emotionally. Even at the table. When I focused on what Mollie taught me I played fine. But I couldn’t always concentrate. The pressure was in my head and wouldn’t let go. Not until I finally got up from the table five hours later, and took a half hour walk before heading back to the bus terminal. And it was waiting for the bus that it dawned on me just what I’d gone through. Which lead to searching through similar instances of self-destructive behaviour. And without going into detail, it invariably dealt with money. I’m bi-polar. I’m finally realizing just what it means. And it scares the hell out of me.

I’m really struggling against my brain tonight. I wish there was an off button. Or at least a pause. Anything to stop me second-guessing every move that I make.

No, not a typo. This was an improv team I was once on.

I’ve decided I’d like to get back into improv.

I went to Don Berns’ funeral yesterday. So much laughter, so many tears. A truly wonderful send off to a man who lived with passion. And it hit me hard this past week, examining my life in comparison and contrast, that I haven’t been living with passion. That, for me, means performing and writing, seeing friends more, having evenings to do what the hell I want.

Which means my current contract is in direct conflict with what I want, with what I need. I want to make an impact, and not just a footprint.

So now comes the hard part: deciding how I’m going to effect this change in my life. I need the work to pay the bills and keep a roof over my head. But I need to reconnect with what makes me happy. I think that’s also why I’ve been unhappy the past while, my subconscious knew but didn’t articulate until now what was wrong.

I could use some advice. I could use a hand. I might need divine intervention.

I can’t remember the last time I had a seriously good, tears-streaming-from-the-eyes, laugh that went on and on and couldn’t be stopped.

On the plus side, today was the first day in over a month where I ventured outside without a need to accomplish something and, despite the fingers getting a bit numb, I enjoyed myself.

Here’s hoping the freezing temps continue to subside and I get a little more adventurous. I’ve been living life in my PJs and that just ain’t right.

I’ve got a very important decision to make in the next 24 hours. My gut is telling me to leap, the signs say it’s the best possible move for me, yet I still hesitate. Fear of the unknown? Fear of failing?

Where is the improviser who said ‘yes and’ to life?

Why am I dragging my feet on this? Don’t I deserve to be happy?

A friend said the other day that when you suffer from mental illness, it’s hard to trust your gut. (I’m paraphrasing.) She’s not wrong.

If I don’t do this now, I don’t know when the next opportunity will arise. If I don’t do this now. it means more suffering because of inaction.

If I don’t do this now.

It I don’t do this.

If I don’t.

If.

It fucking sucks, being bipolar 2, minor or not. Add in depressive anxiety, and it’s a double whammy. It makes every decision that more difficult.

I’m tired of living in between the spaces of my life.