The Bloody Doors Off

I met with my dramaturge today. I was nervous beforehand. No idea what to expect. And I decided to take above-ground transit which was almost a mistake. Took the Carlton streetcar to Broadview, with a plan to take the King car down to Yonge street, and a quick walk to the Marche. But of course I had to wait 15 minutes for the stupid King car, and then a piece of wood — WOOD — got stuck in the wheel housing. I swear, if I didn’t believe in the randomness of events, I’d be paranoid.

Got there with 1 minute to spare, and based on the yellow jacket, recognized him instantly. We got inside, grabbed drinks and found a table in the back to talk shop.

The next 60 minutes were, in a word, awesome. I got some great feedback about the play’s strengths, discussing how I came up with the idea (and how it got insanely better when it started to become more personal), and best of all, things I could do write to help improve it.

And this gets to pushing buttons. Because I need to push the character’s buttons harder in the play. And in turn, that means I’ll be pushing my own buttons. Facing uncomfortable truths. For example, he mentioned that it’s near impossible for characters to smoke on stage these days, and asked if I could find another avenue. And one presented itself, which opened a few more doors, narratively. Which digs into my past, and pain. And I can’t be afraid of that fire. Just like I’ve gotta write here daily, to work through my issues; I can’t be afraid of exploring it in the play as well.

All hell might break loose. I might break loose.

I’m excited. And I’m really, REALLY, fucking scared.

I could barely control myself emotionally, today.

Started out well enough. Woke up around 9am, earplugs having done their thing by blocking the noise upstairs. Managed to get to my brother’s for 2:30 before the rest of the family. That was a surprise; I’m usually the one running behind. So far so good.

Some context about today. My mother and step-father winter in Florida every winter. They leave around the middle of the month, so we have a Christmas exchange before they go.

This is the second year I’ve been so broke I couldn’t even afford to create anything, or buy cards. Gifts? Don’t even go there. And I’m less than 3 weeks out of hospital, so things can be a little dicey on the best of days. When it came to the gifts, I couldn’t open mine. Kevin noticed. I mimed that I was having trouble. I think he and Wayne understood. I know my mom and Larry are aware of what I’m going through, but like my dad, they really can’t talk about it. My mom’s hinted that she’s fought depression in the past, but hasn’t really expanded on that. Something I forgot to tell the hospital for my family history. I guess I blocked it out too.

Anyway. They gifted me with two great shirts I can wear for the winter, and some money (like they do every year). This year I’m gonna have to claim it on my OW (provided I can get OW before the end of the year) and my bankruptcy. So that’s a wee bit depressing. Then we were off to Red Lobster for dinner.

Now, I haven’t been to RL in years, so it was a helluva shock to see how … upscale it is. And how, arriving at 5:30 on a Saturday, we had a 45 minute wait to be seated. Kevin suggested a block-and-a-half walk to McDonald’s for coffee. I needed the break. I was already feeling the weight of the day. It helped a bit, but the noise of the kids in PlayLand didn’t really help much.

After dinner we drove back to Kevin’s, I collected my gifts as well as jam (my mom makes fantastic jam) and some bacon she’d brought. I’m becoming that person you give leftovers too to help them get by. I’d do the same if one of my friends were in the same situation. I just have problems when it comes to me. I feel just so damned guilty.

Kevin says things will turn around and we’ll celebrate in style next year. I hope he’s right.

Was supposed to go to a friend’s birthday party afterwards, but I could tell by the way I was sliding that it was going to be a fight. And realizing I meet with my dramaturge for the first time Sunday afternoon, I decided to re-read the play. Holy gods, my nerves are still so fucking raw. I couldn’t get through it without crying. There were just so many triggers. I’m hoping I can get through the meeting and focus on rewrites.

More than that, I hope tomorrow feels better than today.

I need a good day. Please. I need a good day.

Today was one of those days where I had too much energy, and no seeming direction. It was weird; I haven’t had this happen in a long time. Woken up (as per usual via the idiots upstairs) at 3am, the earplugs having come out at some point after falling asleep. Managed to get back under and woke up at 9am.

By noon I was jumping out of my skin. I HAD to do stuff. There was the drop-off of my monthly bankruptcy statement, all of 2 minutes once I got to the office. And I needed to pick up a few prescriptions. But it wasn’t enough. I NEED to do more. So I got my passport renewed (go figure, I’ve been wanting to do it since August but it was today that I had to do it). AND I picked up a form for my driver’s license renewal. And then a walk up from Yonge/King to Yonge/Wellesley.

Hell, even after I got home, I couldn’t sit still. I decided I needed to pick up kitty litter otherwise I’d have to wait until Sunday. So off I went. And somehow convinced myself to get some other stuff while I was there. But I wasn’t going to ride the streetcar back, oh no. I HAD to walk, had to burn off the energy. Only I didn’t. I’m still bouncy.

It feels like a manic episode, only it’s rare that I have one. And I’ve had 2 in 2 weeks. Since leaving the hospital.

I don’t know if it’s a coincidence, or something else.

I just spent four hours with my dad, specifically not talking about my hospitalization, what led up to it, and how I’m coping now.

I get it; this is stuff he can’t talk about. There’s a lot over the years we haven’t been able to discuss. We don’t have that kind of relationship; we never did. I suppose.  My brothers all handle our relationship with him differently. Kevin and I are most closely aligned. Somehow, Wayne’s made peace with it. I never have.

You wanna know why I’m in therapy? This is part of it. And I don’t see it really ever getting past a certain point. There were times tonight I really wanted to say “I WAS IN THE FUCKING HOSPITAL BECAUSE I NEARLY OFFED MYSELF TWO WEEKS AGO BUT SOMETHING TETHERED ME.” The best that came out was, “check in with me once in a while to see that I’m still kicking”.

And that came from HIM.

I’m pissed. I’m hurt. I wanna cry over this. But it’s not worth it. This has been our relationship since forever.

There are maybe 3 or 4 pictures of me in his house; one of them from Wayne’s wedding (standing beside a bridesmaid that I met that day and haven’t seen since). Nothing since my early 20s.

Frozen in time. That’s what this is. We’re frozen. He came close to admitting maybe understanding how my mom felt after the divorce (because of another issue not worth getting into). But he can’t understand what I’m going through, and for that, I feel empty and cold.

Fuck.

My friend Catriona shared with me this link today, that talks about how there is beauty even in our darkest moments, and how we can capture them.

http://www.chookooloonks.com/blog/you-have-evidence-to-suggest-otherwise

I’m saving this here so I can come back to it every time I need to be reminded.

I wish I could fly. I really do. But I’m kinda scared of heights. It’s a dichotomy. When I was young, I used to dream of flying, but it was always just a couple of feet above the ground. I was really going for it when I got above the hydro wires on my street.

Despite the apprehension, I still yearned to fly. I remember when a neighbour took me and his daughter up in his bi-plane. He did a couple of barrel rolls and whatnot and it scared the absolute crap out of me. I white-knuckled it the entire time. And yet.

Traveling to the top of the CN Tower in the glass elevator? Always closed my eyes. It was even a task to look down when I got there. And yet.

I bungee-jumped once at the CNE (even video-taped it as proof). Talk about terrifying. It took a few countdowns before I actually leapt. After I was brought down, my blood pressure dropped so low they had to get me to a medical bay until I stabilized.

And yet.

I yearn to fly. I yearn to stretch out my arms, get taken up by the wind, and soar.

Okay, metaphorically.

This past year, I’ve felt absolutely grounded. Tethered to the earth by a giant invisible weight. With each setback, every rejection, every perceived failure, it just got heavier.

And we all know just how crushed I felt emotionally and mentally two weeks ago.

But today, today I think, maybe I’m ready to start learning how to fly again.

A foot off the ground would be a nice start.

You know what I don’t get? Why I’ve gotta have these fucking lows after having a decent afternoon. And I know I can just pick up the phone and call someone, but the voice in the back of my head tells me I’m weak if I do.

Argh.

A quick aside: I either can’t make pita wraps or the pita was too thick. Damn what a mess.

Today’s been a good day, despite my suspicions to the opposite.

Got up at 10am. Wanted to be up at 9, or 9:30 at the latest. I’m really trying to build a new schedule. I’m able to climb into bed around midnight (the sleeping pill helps; hell, it’s always helped and has needed to help, I just usually put it off until 2am or when I felt guilty for still being awake). But waking up earlier still escapes me. I realize it’s just a matter of time, establishing the routine. I’m not giving up on this; but some mornings can be discouraging.

My new roommate came by early this afternoon to drop off an inflatable mattress as an interim sleeping choice until he can get the rest of his stuff moved in. He’s not in a rush, and honestly that made me feel better. I was a bit anxious, and that’s totally on me. The last roommate situation did not work out and I’m worried that I could be a problem, especially given recent events. But again, my worries were for naught. I think this is going to be a good fit.

Then I met up with my friend Cat for a walk. I recognize that I need to be more active; one of my brothers has suggested looking into programs at CAMH (good idea) and a dear friend recommends volunteering (another excellent idea). I feel like I’m taking baby steps back into the world right now. I recognized on Saturday that I’m good in small social situations and need to work up to larger social interactions, which may require being in a larger social setting.

Back to the walk.

So, Cat and I met up in the Riverdale area, and she led me to Riverdale Farm (which I knew existed but had never really visited). It’s open to the public (they ask for donations) and I was surprised (and yet not) to only see a couple of lambs and a cow there (yes a cow, not a horse. For the one person who may read this, that joke’s for you.)

But then I noticed a building across the street; it looked like a church (turned out it was, a teeny church). And there was a wooden archway to the right, that led to a cemetery.

And that’s how I discovered Toronto’s Necropolis.

In my youth, I’ve walked Mount Pleasant Cemetery (my grandparents on my dad’s side, and great-aunt and great-uncle are buried there). I’ll admit to even hopping the fence in the dead of night with a girl I had a crush on. (Story, perhaps, for another time.) And in my travels, New Orleans and Athens for example, I’ve visited sites there. But never had I been to the Necropolis. Hell, I didn’t even know it existed, let alone was Toronto’s oldest cemetery.

The varied tombstones, the craftsmanship. Seeing stone mason symbols carved in some of them (including a merging of the stone mason and cross inside the church…) And the fall colours. Holy shit. It took my breath away. The history of the city, some of the founders are buried there. And on our way out? We found Jack Layton’s grave. That brought me a good mix of emotions.

A great walk with a good friend, and a pleasant reminder of why it’s good to be alive.