The Bloody Doors Off

All my life, I’ve heard, and been told, don’t sweat the small stuff. Makes a lot of sense; avoid stress, find peace.

Never happened.

I’m reading Chris Hadfield’s autobiography, An Astronaut’s Guide to Life on Earth, and in the preamble, he says ‘no, do sweat the small stuff’. Because it made him more aware of each job he did that lead to him captaining the International Space Station. But there’s more. Don’t aim to for the end goal, because it might not happen. Aim for what’s going to make you happy. And if you get the desired result, keep going, but remember, that might not happen either.

Aim for what makes me happy. Even if means sweating the small stuff along the way.

More overtime. And I volunteered because we were short-handed.

I don’t know if I’m just embracing the contract, or running from something.

Helluva day. I really hit my stride at work. Fired on all cylinders; didn’t take a lunch but got out on time. Had a decent dinner when I got home.

So why the fuck do I feel empty?

Seriously. I’m not manic tonight. Might’ve fed on that energy during the day, but it was warranted.

This is me at my best, at least at work.

And there’s a great big hole in me.

Change is in the air. Can you smell it?

And I feel like I’ve barely taken a step.

Today I installed a keyboard tray under my computer desk. 99%. A neighbour helped drill the holes so I could screw the final pieces in. (I’d loaned out my drill.)

Seriously. This is a big deal for me. It went almost flawlessly, and when I hit that moment where I could progress no further on my own, I didn’t get pissed off. Didn’t get frustrated and throw a tantrum. (Should’ve seen me with the air conditioner last summer; great model, floor model, but getting the hose into the slot and putting it in the window had me cursing a blue streak.) I examined my options. I made phone calls. I asked the guy next door.

And I got it done.

I got the motherfucking thing done.

This gives me hope.

I sneezed so hard this afternoon, I bit my tongue.

Bloody allergies. They’re killing me. I gotta use a nasal spray to unclog the old proboscis.

Enough fluff.

The manic episodes continue. Happened yesterday at Jason and Paige’s wedding reception. Challenging my brother to karaoke, passively-aggressively taking credit for one of the jokes he told as emcee (in my defense, it was a good joke). But really, I shouldn’t have needed the validation. And I hate myself for that.

Had to leave the event early into the dancing because I could feel myself slipping, emotionally and mentally. That’s the thing about a manic episode: what goes up, must come down. Thankfully a TTC bus ran directly outside the Legion Hall; it wasn’t the bus I though it was, and it went to Scarborough Town Centre instead of Kennedy. But the RT got me to Kennedy. Stupidly, I nearly jumped off at the first cross-section to wait for a different bus. Thankfully the driver talked some sense into me.

And even then, I didn’t go home. I couldn’t. So I kept traveling west and then south, and visited some friends. And found out I missed quite the party. I mean, Sharknado Florentine. Yes, I wanted to play with the stuffed sharks, but no takers.

I’m not even gonna hint at the other stuff I missed.

Fuck I just did. Sorry. Anyway.

This is my life.

So I made the right choice and came home to sleep. Didn’t even post in the blog last night. That makes twice in almost seven months. May not seem important, but it eats at me.

Today I got done what I needed to, and spent a couple hours at Carey and Mimi’s Night Meats party. That was a blast. Recreated an infamous photo with Nike, which I’m sure when I’m 70 will come back and haunt me. But it was fun, so fuck you. I got to reconnect with Ian Keeling, who I’ve always been impressed by. And he’s on the first draft of his fifth sci-fi fantasy novel. I’m struggling to get back to the rewrites for A Song for Rachel, and haven’t even begun plotting Possession.

But I realized, I’ve had 2 full days off this weekend. And that makes up for a lot.

Now if I could just get a handle on the mania.

Spent 13 hours in the office, the last 4 of which were a waste of time because the job I was fixing, someone else was also correcting.

Fuck.

Gotta let it go and sleep. Being pissed off isn’t going to help.

This weather is about a month behind schedule. And it’s not  helping that what few breaks I’m taking at the office (note: I said taking, it’s my choice) there’s no sun to step out into.

Thanks again for the light therapy box, brother. It’s really helping right now.

I haven’t been hugely ranty. Oh, I get pissed off. Fuck, I can go 0-60. I’m just not taking it here. As often.

An outlet, that’s what I think I need. Something to channel this shit.

I’ve been trying to let go, of negative emotion, of taking affront to things that happen completely out of my control. Until recently, I wasn’t very aware that I was even feeling it. But the streetcar/bus ride from hell, after 11pm. Fuck. I screamed, I slammed my body into the shelter.

I don’t know where this is coming from. Or how long it’s been there, unnoticed.

Fight or flight. It’s like that. Plays into my anxiety too. That’s the flight option. Full-blown panic attack, scrambling for lorazepam.

I get so damned hyperfocused at work, which in a sense is good, but it’s got its fallback. (And that was the weakness I answered honestly at the interview.) I missed an email about a meeting, because I was ensconced in an Excel file trying to crack the DNA of a chart that only had 3/4 of the numbers on the hard copy.

An hour ago I pre-cooked a bunch of rice so I could pack a dinner tomorrow. Not lunch. Dinner. Because I already suspect I’m going to be working late.

I need an outlet. Something to blow off steam.

Before I rain down something truly brutal.

After a 12 hour day at the office.

Welcome to the night shift.

They forgot the tag, usually said on an X-Men cover: Hope you survive the experience.

In other news, some asshat who happened by my blog dropped a deuce on my ‘About me’ page. Seems he wasn’t impressed. To which I say: I’m not writing it for you, jackass. Maybe if you could understand more than monosyllabic words, you’d have figured that out.

So, Argo fuck yourself.

The Agency. Oh man.

Today they decide, all contractors should invoice weekly. Because they haven’t screwed it up enough. They want it no later than Friday, at 11AM. You know, an hour before I start my shift that day. Not to mention Saturday. And the Agency wants the approved timesheets from my client to accompany it. But you cannot bill for ‘future time’, so the timesheets won’t get approved in time. So I can’t bill for my hours.

Yes, I tried repeatedly to speak with my representative about this. She never returned my calls. Or email.

My boss is on my side with this: she’s willing to go to the mat and demand they rescind the change. (Which hey, also breaks the contract I signed with the Agency; you know, because they put in writing when and how I invoice to get paid. Not to mention they almost didn’t pay me on time according to the contract they signed.)

I’m loving the work. I ended up in the office 90 minutes early today (after my doctor’s appointment, and oh yeah, I woke up a half hour before my alarm today too). I’m hitting a groove with this work.

So of course, the Agency has to make things worse.

Stay tuned.