Today is one of those days that send mixed messages.
Plus column:
I’ve been writing. Managed to incorporate a new 8-page scene into the play. Also found a way ‘in’ to a new flashback where I need to introduce the father and mother, and a bit of the protagonist’s history.
Got out for a short walk and picked up a few groceries. Bagels were 2-for-1 (never can go wrong with that).
The weather was decent.
Minus column:
At some point in my walk, the cap of my e-cig battery casing came out and fell out of my pocket. Which means no e-cig.
Cigarette cravings, which meant buying a cheap ass convenience story e-cig, which tastes awful (seriously, those would make people go back to smoking)
Plus: My friend Mollie has a spare I can borrow.
Minus: Waiting.
My schedule’s out of whack this weekend. I need to make sure I get to bed earlier. And I’m stressing over the play. It’s becoming intensely personal. Cathartic, but there are times I have to stop because I need to breathe.
That’s where I trip myself up. I put expectations of what needs to happen as opposed to asking ‘what is reasonable for me to get done’? And I know it in my brain, but putting it into practice is a bitch.
I need to slow down. I need to breathe. And I need to say ‘it’s okay if I don’t get it all done today’.
Because it’s important I be honest with myself, because it’s the only way to heal, I will be revealing things about myself in this blog that some friends and family might not already know. I’m not opening it up for discussion in the comments section, but will avail myself to discuss it privately. Consider this a friendly warning. – P
I’m kinky.
There, I’ve said it. Welcome to a piece of my world 90% of my family and friends did not know about me until now. I say this because it directly relates to tonight. To deny or hide any aspect of this is detrimental to the healing process. I will, however, not ‘out’ anyone in the community. I choose to reveal myself and will perhaps talk more about this later, but for tonight it’s enough to say that for the past decade I’ve identified as on the kink spectrum, and have for the past 3 years, been participating in the lifestyle.
Now, think about everything you know about me. Nothing changes. I’m still me. I had a breakdown 3 weeks ago, but it had nothing to do with this. So if your thoughts about me change for the worse, there’s nothing I can do to change it. Nor will I.
Tonight I went to Subspace (a play space) to meet with some friends, 2 of whom were celebrating birthdays. This was my first event in over a month. I felt strong enough to go, especially knowing that it was a more intimate affair. These are friends who care about me as much as I do for them. I got there just after 8pm, and all was good for about 90 minutes. I conversed, socialized, made some ridiculous jokes. (I use humor to diffuse and make myself more comfortable.)
At one point, a pair were preparing to scene. This required changing into hazmat suits. My first thought: man, that’s fucking awesome! I’m making Heisenberg jokes (“I am the one who knocks!” — Breaking Bad reference, yo). Confining/constricting clothing isn’t my thing, but I can appreciate the art in it, and how others can enjoy it. I thought how interesting it would be to see this.
But first, one needed to put on a white top and pants.
And that’s when the trigger hit.
I flashed right back to H Ward on 6. Which is utterly fucking ridiculous because (a) there are no orderlies (it’s all nurse practitioners) and (b) they all wore colorful outfits (that I can remember). If anyone there did wear scrubs, they sure as hell weren’t white. But I couldn’t shake it. And I had to leave. They recognized the anxiety and offered hugs, and off I went.
It wasn’t until I was halfway home when I put the pieces together. One Flew Over the Cookoo’s Nest. And not the movie.
I was in Grade 7 or 8 I think. Wayne was in high school, and he was playing Billy Bibbitt in the stage production. Towards the end of the play, Billy is introduced to a woman and they have sex (offstage, you perverts). But in the morning, he’s caught by Nurse Ratchett and put in a doctor’s office. She scolds him and says something along the lines of “what will your mother think?” She lords it over him. I don’t know if it’s ever stated explicitly, but I think Billy was abused, mentally or physically, by his mother.
A few minutes later, they find Billy’s body. He broke a glass and slit his wrists. You don’t see that in the play; it’s inferred, but not shown. (I remember they showed it in the movie.) It freaked me the fuck out. People had to convince me afterwards that my brother wasn’t actually dead.
So that innocent white outfit, such a simple thing, did me in.
But now I can recognize it for what it was. Something that happened in the past. Now I just need to keep it there.
I’m embedding this video because the song really fucking resonates with me. Especially tonight.
Got another phone call from Service Canada. Can’t activate a new claim for the medical extension, but I can get an extension to my ‘just past’ claim. So I’ll get another 9 weeks, which gets me to Christmas. It’s not much, but gives me some much needed breathing room to continue healing and well enough to search for work.
The day started well enough. Breakfast with one brother, coffee with the other.
And then my phone rang. Things went downhill from there; a series of disappointments.
EI called. Despite it being called a ‘medical extension’, my past claim had expired and because I have tried to start my own company and haven’t deposited funds towards Self-Employment Insurance (which you have to do for 52 weeks minimum), my claim was denied. I could appeal, but the rules are ‘black and white’. “Those are the rules.”
I decided I wouldn’t let it get me down, so I went to Service Ontario to renew my driver’s license. I had updated my address back in August and they gave me a temporary paper license with the new address but the license itself had expired. When I asked for the renewal they said I hadn’t taken the test to upgrade from a G to a G1, and therefore was denied. I’d have to pay $95 and take the test over again. Because, “those are the rules”.
And let’s not forget being denied for CPP Disability because I take pills for both type 2 diabetes and depression and is considered to be ‘under control’. After all, “those are the rules”.
And oh yes, I dug through the paperwork for OW today because I need to fill out the Oct. 16-Nov. 15 income, and found paperwork I need filled by my doctor. So I already know that until I get those done too (earliest next Tuesday, but that appointment is for my diabetes and they’re usually booked up which means a second appointment on another day, I doubt it’ll get processed within the right time frame. ‘Cuz you know, “those are the rules”.
I’m tired of rules and regulations that make you jump through hoops, only to be told you can’t be helped. I’m so fucking tired of the bullshit of an alleged enlightened society that doesn’t care for its most vulnerable.
I’m trying extremely hard to be forward-thinking. To not let it drag me down. I was able to focus for a while on the play. That helped. But now it’s late, and that’s when I’m most vulnerable. That’s when the pressure builds.
Had to call into EI this morning because, while I wait word on whether I qualify for the medical extension, I still have put in reports. And there’s always some obstacle that makes me have to call in.
And today I got some brutally honest news from one of the workers. When the consider the medical extension, they have to look over the past 60 weeks for insurable hours. I’ve been out of work since August 2012 and haven’t had anywhere near enough in my business, nor was I aware about applying for a program that would take maybe $2 a month and apply it as a buffer.
Essentially told, ‘don’t get my hopes up’. Actually, those were the words he used.
So the glimmer of hope I had, that maybe there was a net to break my fall… turns out that’s likely a shadow across the concrete.
Yeah I turned a corner. And it was into a one-way lane and I’m going against traffic.
This is what my psychiatrist said to me today, that I’ve turned a corner.
I know what he’s saying, I just wish I believed him. I’m trying to. But there are just these little things that continue to creep in that drive me down. Or up. Or sideways. The point is, I don’t feel it like I’m supposed to. Or think I’m supposed to. Christ, I have no idea.
How frustrating is that? I’m not ignoring the blog. Good thing. Ideas are gelling for the play and I’m plodding through it. Good thing. There’s moments where I found myself bopping along earlier today with my MP3 player. But I know — I KNOW — that there’s so much more that I NEED to be in a good place.
There’s so much in limbo. No work coming in (don’t know if I could handle it), yet I spent an hour today working on my resume. Won’t know until the end of the month if I’ll get the medical extension for EI, and I’m afraid to spend a goddamned dime on things I need (and don’t get me started on something I might want, no matter how cheap it is). Every time I log an expense into the computer to keep track for my bankruptcy, I feel daggers metaphorically sticking into me. Asking me “do I really need this?”, “is this something I can honestly justify?” And so I go back and forth, yes, no, no, yes.
And then there’s the heating situation in the apartment. Turns out the bedroom heater ‘clicks’ CONSTANTLY when it’s on, and it does so because it’s trying not to overheat. I can hear it from the living room, so imagine what that’s like trying to sleep. So I have 2 options: turn the thermostat down in my room and freeze, or run the little heater in the bedroom at night. Option 2 makes sense, right? Only it jacks the hydro, and the landlords would prefer we not do that, and instead pay for the gas. But I need to sleep, and the clicking is a shit option. So yeah. Do what I gotta do, and try and NOT feel guilty about it.
I’m really missing my last apartment. I hated the management company who took over (they treated everyone like ass), but at least I didn’t have to worry about gas or clicking noises, or upstairs neighbors who scream at each other and run the washing machine 20 hours out of the day or bang on the floor at all hours.
So yeah. Turning a corner? Not feeling it.
What I am feeling is that pressure in the back of my head and neck, just like before I broke down. There’s a few similarities from then to now.
I have writer’s block. Not with the play. But for today’s blog.
This is a daily thing for me. To see where I’m at. Finding strength and bringing it forward. To find ways to climb out of the darkness. To make plans for the future.
And I have nothing to say. It’s all drivel. It’s fucking cliche. Forced.
Was struggling earlier with the new draft of the play. Couldn’t get my mind around it, despite the meeting yesterday and the notes I took. So I took a walk in the drizzle to the grocery store to get peanut butter. And two blocks in, a question forms: what if I switch the ages of 2 of the characters? What if the protagonist was younger? What if? The wheels turned. And when I got back, over the course of hours and dinner, I got through a chunk of two scenes. They still need some work, but the idea’s there. And provided a hint for more.
So why can’t I do that with my personal narrative? Why can’t I ask a simple question and come up with a new way to look at my life and find a possibility for happiness? Why am I so stupidly blocked?
And that above paragraph? Feels so fucking contrived.
The Bloody Doors Off 