The Bloody Doors Off

Today was a good day. I mean, a good day. Despite some gremlin trying to find purchase in my throat, threatening a viral fuck you towards my first day at a new part-time job, things were good. I may have hit the wrong button when my alarm went off and slept an extra 90 minutes, but I still had plenty of time to make my appointments. And my brothers joined me for the first time with my psychiatrist. And that went well too. I’ve never felt closer to them, and wow, did I learn that I’ve repressed certain memories from childhood. I can deal with that. Shit makes sense that I’d push it down. But I can handle in future sessions.

There was an email from a client with a bit of work for when I got home. I’d had a bite to eat with Kevin and Wayne, and the bus ride was damned relaxing.

And then I learn Harold Ramis died. Fuck. One of the reasons I gravitated to comedy, SCTV was the first real window into Canadian comedy. It twigged me to Second City, and in a circuitous way, improv.

This day was supposed to be about me. I wanted to be selfish enough to say “yeah, bitch, things are looking up”. And now I feel like a piece of crap for feeling that way, because Ramis passed on.

Oh, and the working world has decided to really fuck with me too. I had a call earlier when I was headed to my psychiatrist appointment. It went to voicemail, I thought it was Kevin or Wayne checking the time (I was cutting it extremely close; thanks TTC!). Nope.

It’s a recruitment/temp agency. They have my resume, and want to talk about jobs that are available.

I’ve never bailed on a job before. Okay that’s not entirely true. There was one time when I lived over a pawn shop and trying to freelance and took a really crappy assignment asking questions outside a supermarket. I lasted a day. But otherwise, I’ve never accepted a job and then walked away from it.

But I have to take that call tomorrow. I know this in my bones. The part-time job (that I haven’t started yet) is going to barely pay the rent, and certainly not the bills. What if there’s a juicy contract position available that I’d be perfect for? I’ve been out of work since 2012 and I need something strong. Am I being an asshole for considering this?

Am I going to make people hate me?

Did you watch the closing ceremonies of the Olympics? Neither did I. If I’d stayed up for the full hockey game (ended up going back to bed and taping it) I could’ve watched it live in the morning. But I just couldn’t care tonight.

I tried to write. Maybe got two pages down. The idea is there, and I’ve sketched out the synopsis of the scene. It’s got humor and a moment for it to get more serious, a true bonding moment for two of the characters. I can hear them talking in my head, but so far, it’s fluff. I don’t know if they’re avoiding the moment, or I am.

I’m tapping into my past again for this scene. It takes place in a Dublin hostel, and what is to be their last hurrah after university (and before real life begins), only to get interrupted with potentially dire family news. But as this is a story I can control, it’ll have a happier outcome. The point is to solidify their bond. It did the same for me.

Anyway. That’s all I’ve got to say on that.

I’m stuck.

I’ve got ideas for the play, but am having trouble getting it started properly. The first scene has been revised. But there’s new stuff I want to write for it and that will inform other scenes in the play, and so I don’t want to get too heavy into rewrites until the new pages are done. But that’s the catch-22: getting a proper handle on the new stuff. I know what I want to accomplish, just not sure how to start it off.

And that makes me feel… empty. Like the well’s run dry, waiting to be filled up.

Went out to get a few groceries earlier, and it was really nice out. Sunshine, above zero temperature. But it just didn’t call to me. Finally a day that isn’t making me feel like hibernating, and I didn’t take advantage of it. And now it’s evening, and I want to write, but it’s not calling to me either.

And then there are the coincidences. Finding a song earlier today from Vangelis called ‘Rachel’s Song’. Blade Runner on the television (character? Rachel). It’s that kind of day. Everything’s telling me to write. But I’m blank.

Even worse? I was supposed to go out tonight with friends. I was dressed and ready. And wham, anxiety flooded. For no good reason. It just did. And before I was aware, I was in my pajamas and under a blanket on the couch.

Ugh.

I would like to bottle today in a bottle, to spritz in increments when I’m having shitty days.

First, Canadian Men’s hockey are in the finals. And yeah, for a guy who’s not much into sports, I’m pretty damned happy about it. It’s the Olympics; hard not to get swept up. But man, as a Torontonian I was conflicted. Here I am rooting for a team with Habs players and the U.S. had Leafs players. So… the Leafs streak is unbroken.

Then I was in the office at the new job, doing a quick layout just so one of the bosses was satisfied I could work on my own (i.e., when the senior graphics lead wouldn’t be in the office). I’m getting my balance in PageMaker, and it sounds like it won’t be long until we move to InDesign, which will make things even easier.

Came home, grabbed a bite, then headed out to Subspace for a staff gathering. Tickled the hell out of Eva, than smacked the beejeesus out of JB’s ass. Now I’m home and watching the Tonight Show and enjoying a wind-down with a little help from my friend. And the cats. Bloody cuddlers. They think I should be in bed by now. Granted, I probably should be. Soon.

And because it was on my iPod just before I got home (took the leisurely Carlton streetcar from Dufferin; I enjoy the late-night ride), I present another Canadian treasure, Drake:

(I hate the video, but love the song.)

I got the job. Ego boost, a side of nerves. I proposed a pay scale; they offered the low end, but it was within the range I’d put forward. Will not complain about that. I start Tuesday. And, I don’t have to be in the office until mid-afternoon. Lovely.

It won’t pay all the bills. I knew that when I applied. But it will pay the rent, and provide more experience as well as, and this is the important bit, momentum. I’ve been feeling inertia on the job front for far too long. Hopefully this will give me impetus to work on getting more clients for my business. Or another part-time job.

Tonight, I feel… worthwhile.

No word from the job yesterday. You want frustrating? This. Is frustrating.

“And other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?”

I dunno how to describe today, other than that.

So. I went in today for a second interview with that part-time job. At least, I thought it was an interview. I can’t be sure. It might’ve been offered to me. They definitely got me on the computer for 3 hours to work on a few pages, alongside Walter. He’s the current layout guy at Share. Before I went in, one of the owners told me they’re not looking to push him out, but he’s got carpel tunnel and wanting to take more time off, and they’re planning for the future.

I did 2 page layouts and a couple of ads. Around 7pm, the EIC called and said I was welcome to leave or continue on. I hadn’t planned on being there this long, hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and needed to grab food. There’s nowhere in the area to eat, so I made the choice to head out. They asked if I was back tomorrow.

No clue. Because while they said at the outset today that I was their choice (over the other candidate), they didn’t outright offer me the job, discuss a wage, or get me to sign any paperwork. So I’m assuming that this was part two of the interview, get the layout editor to look at my stuff, and they’ll make the call?

And oh, it’s all in Pagemaker. I can sort of get around it. But even Walter admitted no one really uses Pagemaker any longer and they should upgrade to InDesign (which they also have). And I’m not sure why they’re importing PDFs into Photoshop, saving as an EPS, then loading it into CorelDraw and exporting that to a TIFF. See, I’d import the ads into Illustrator, export as an EPS and link it in the InDesign file. (They say they use TIFF because the file size is smaller overall in Pagemaker, but if you do it with InDesign, it doesn’t technically bloat the main file.)

What I’m saying is, there are efficiencies that could be incorporated. But I’m (maybe) the new guy, and that’s down the road a ways.

And also? I suffered a HUGE, CRIPPLING panic attack in the middle of it all. I have no idea how I kept it together. There was literally a moment I imagined trying to explain to my psychiatrist/ODSP/OW how impossible it was for me to consider work. But I got past it. So… go me?

They like me. But they haven’t offered me the job yet. I think.

Well, it’s a start. Worked on 9 pages of the script tonight.

I get that there’s an imbalance. The chemical soup misfires neurons (or doesn’t) and causes unpredictability.

As a result, I get sad, I get paranoid. I made bad decisions. I second-guess good decisions.

It’s a learning curve, and I’m doing the best I can. Medications are taken daily, the doctor is visited weekly. This blog is written in daily, even if it’s just saying that I can’t put words down and, like a stale Family Guy joke, I throw to a youtube clip of Conway Twitty.

The thing is, I’m trying.

All I ask in return is, every so often allow me a little piece of mind. And maybe help with the rewrites to the play.

Love,

me.

I have a complicated history with being happy.

Even the idea of being happy.

It’s not that I can’t. It’s holding onto it. Like sand, running through my fingers. Warm from the sun, tickling the skin. But eventually the last grains fall away, leaving only an impression of what was.

And then I look again. Reach again.

It’s funny, and a bit sad, how the definition of ‘happiness’ changes with circumstance as well. But when you really examine it, it’s a puzzle. Happiness comes in pieces that eventually you lock together and forms a complete picture.

And I don’t think I’ve ever had that. Sometimes I’m not even sure what the picture is.

Right now, there are several pieces I’m trying to fit together. Finding work, writing the new draft of the play. I’ve been trying to find work for over 18 months now. I’ve had minor success with freelancing, but nowhere near what I need to survive, let alone thrive. And my moods are tied into self-worth, and I need to feel positive in order to write. So if I’m not having an ‘up’ day, nothing’s going to spark my creativity.

But then there’s last night. I was at Subspace. I met Bowmanville (yes, I now know her name, but last night I only knew where she lived; she thought the nickname was cute). We scened, which was quite natural. (Got to love when that happens.) And after, asked if I wanted to smoke. Which I don’t any longer. Even though I’d forgotten my e-cigarette at home last night. (I debated going back for it but didn’t; turns out my willpower is better than I anticipated.) But, she said, would I like to smoke?

Ah.

I have a complicated history with that as well. Didn’t try it for the first time until my late 20s. Not a habitual user in any sense of the word. And it can affect me in really odd ways. Last October it made me (more) paranoid and anxious. So I swore off it until pretty much the new year. And last night, as I took my leave before I became a babbling mess, inspiration struck like thunder. Opened avenues for the play that, as I reflect on it today, are pretty fuckin’ brilliant.

But do you think I can write it tonight?

HA.

I’m not happy at the moment.