shit like this: in Word Salad

I can’t seem to shape my thoughts into coherent sentences so… I thought I’d write an entry.

As usual, things are fucking awful.
I often feel like I’m not in touch with reality anymore and not just because I’m fucking crazy but because the current version of reality is so bleak, I prefer a different plane. Except that doesn’t really happen - I can’t just switch back and forth. Unfortunately. I guess, maybe, it’s more like a constant state of feeling like things are… surreal. Like, I’ll often find myself, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, thinking about the trajectory of my life and it just strikes me as completely bizarre - to the point where it feels like a waking (nightmare) dream, like it’s happening to someone else, like it’s not even real. I can’t find my feet and plant them firmly on the ground because, though the ground looks solid and like it could support me, it’s actually quicksand. So, I just stay where I am - on the edge of the bed. Literally. I do it for hours.

It’s amazing what you can learn to live without.
Hope, in particular.
Joy is another.
The idea that the future actually exists and will somehow be better than the present moment.
Comfort - and not for lack of trying by the people that still include me in their lives and consider me an actual person and not just a sucking vortex of need or a burden or a serious liability to their own well-being, bless their hearts.
And, I guess, the biggest thing of all: that there’s no place for me anywhere - where everything is a series of round holes and I’m the square peg. Life, as I see it - where all those holes are labelled, categorized: work, play, interests, relationships, meaning, contribution, community, part-of, included, etc.
I just don’t fit.
I’ve laboured all these years - to fit, to mould myself, to adjust the “me” to fit - to no avail. I’m almost 45 years old and in addition to the starkly terrifying realization of how fucking fruitless the whole thing has been, there’s also the nagging (and mostly confirmed) suspicion that there’s no end in sight. It’s a fool’s errand and I resent the idea that I’m somehow just supposed to continue on, keep trying, think positively, stay the course, see it through.
For what?
It’s pointless.
It’s just suffering and torment.

Everything I thought I knew to be a truth, a fact, almost-45 years worth of experience and knowledge - is wrong. Everything I thought was stable, everything I assumed I could build my life on is merely thin and flimsy - like rotting particleboard.

I thought:

Being a “good person” meant having a good life.
Not so.
I’ve (for the most part) been a “good person” and it literally doesn’t pay off. It doesn’t count for fuck all.

I thought:

Working hard meant being rewarded - and not just in a material sense but also in terms of having pride in your accomplishment and/or equating it to worth/value and/or having a solid core of integrity.
Not so.
Working hard has left me, literally - broken, physically and so emotionally disillusioned I can barely breathe. Because, I worked very hard and I have nothing to show for it. I am completely empty-handed.

I thought:

Invest in other people. Show up and be there - be present, be compassionate. Foster connections, be of service, extend love, camaraderie. Reduce suffering, be a friend. Pitch in, be helpful, offer.
Not so.
Because all that did was deplete me of energy I should have invested in myself. All that did was show me how easily other people will take advantage of you - suck you in, suck you dry, spit you out. With few exceptions, I never got back what I put in. Or, even a breaking even - a give and take that was equitable or made up for the initial investment.

I thought:

The passage of time brings clarity, wisdom, acceptance, maturity, knowledge, certainty.
Not so.
To me, the passage of time is now just a long-running loop of regret about what a goddamned colossal waste of said time has actually been and continues to be. It really fucking bothers me to be so hyper-aware that time is finite. You only get so much time allotted. The clock is literally ticking - counting down your time. And to spend that precious finite time - completely mired in pain and confusion and terror - is a fucking tragedy. It’s the penultimate cosmic joke.

I am diminished.
Reduced.
No longer participating.
A passive bystander.
Observing.
I’m bitter and jealous - my marginalization compounds itself and pins me down, jackboot on my windpipe.
I see and hear and read about people doing things, going places, having interests and opportunities and enjoying themselves and treating themselves and from where I’m sitting - it’s a flashing-neon reminder of privilege and, if I’m being honest - it’s a little morally gross to me that people are so spoiled and don’t even realize it. And the complaining! OMG! The bitching and moaning and whining that goes on over tiny shit that doesn’t even matter. So much unceasing chatter about vapid vacuous shit. It’s sickening. Even worse is I used to BE one of those people. I used to have enough money to sit in my air conditioned car in the drive-thru and have the audacity to complain about how long my coffee order was taking. Such luxury.
Now, I’m teetering precariously on the no-room-to-maneuver brink of homelessness - where I regularly go to bed hungry in one of the richest nations on the planet because - after I pay my rent and utilities there’s little left to buy food and the foodbank only allows one visit per month. So, forgive me my bitterness and jealousy… I’m probably just hungry.
It’s extremely demoralizing to be trapped in poverty when you live in a developed country because everywhere I look is just another reminder of all the things I need (Never mind want. WANT?! “Want” equals decadence at this point.) that I can’t access.

Like, y’know… shit like this:

I started therapy but after three sessions, I had to cancel because I literally don’t have the bus fare to get there, nor can I pay the insanely-reduced po’folk hourly rate of $5/hour (regularly priced at $75-$100/hour).

I saw a doctor who was indifferent and abrupt. She asked me what medication I wanted - this, after telling her that I’ve tried ten different ones for mood and four different ones for chronic physical pain. I chose the least-lethal ones because I made a verbal contract with my therapist after we discussed how often and how strongly the urge to commit suicide completely floods and overwhelms me. I haven’t taken any of them - they sit on my bedside table, collecting dust because they don’t work. This doctor did set me up with yet another psych consult - which I also had to cancel because I can’t afford the fucking bus fare and it’s too far to hobble to on my jacked-up knee anyway. Also, she referred me to a new ortho for my jacked-up knee but that was only after I literally had to get a bit… how you say?… ornery. She told me she could only deal with my mood issues during this visit and to come back later for the knee issue.
I was all: uhhh.. no, bish.
So, she sat back down and magnanimously set that up for me, sighing huffily the whole five extra minutes it took. So caring, much professional. Anygay - that’s booked for the end of August. Stayed tuned to see if I have to cancel that, too.

The endless wait to speak to the lone worker who will take my application for the provincially-funded disability support program.

Side note: We moved back to Ontario in May, by the way - if anyone gives a flying fuck at this point. Not that I’m eager to discuss THAT fucking disaster so, don’t even ask because I did NOT want to leave Montreal - and when I think about it, I feel like crying/vomiting so let’s… just… not.

Yeah.

So, apparently, there’s only one person doing the applications for this program and there’s (roughly) 843,072 people waiting in line - and from what I can tell, I’m #843,071.
Been waiting since May.
Then, it’ll be the wait for medical records and “proof” that I’m a fucking drain on the good tax-paying citizens of Ontario and THEN, the up-to-a-YEAR-long wait for the actual approval and acceptance into this program.
No biggie.
All I DO is wait.

I just can’t bring myself to imagine or… hope?… that things will get better. When I think of the future, of what’s coming next, of how to keep going, of the rest of this fucked-up trajectory - it’s a blank. It’s a brick wall. It’s… nothing. I used to think there was hope - and I still do think that but now, I’ve realized that hope is for other people and not for me. Like, I have hope for my kids and for Peter and my few remaining friends. I talked to my therapist about this - like, now that I’ve fiiiiiiinally made it to therapy, it feels like the ruinous-clawing-desperation to unload the shit I need to talk about has passed. What good will it do now - to drag out all that poisonous shit? I question the value of it now - now that the damage has set like stone. I don’t have the energy to chip away at it, anymore. A year ago? Maybe. Now? Not so much. And to what end? I asked her: What is this going to do - besides arm me with tools to bear the unbearable? Not interested in that. Because: I honestly don’t believe that “recovery” is possible - that life can, or will - improve or change into something more meaningful, more live-able, more enjoyable (ha.). My actual lived experience is the exact opposite of that.
I’ve basically packed up that fucking box - labelled “possibilities” - and shoved that fucker on to the lowest shelf in the darkest corner of the basement of (what’s left of) my mind. I’m a realist. These are facts. And if they’re not facts (because: crazy girl is crazy) how could I see it any other way?

Two days ago, there was a shift in my thinking.
The unstoppable tide of “Kill yourself. It’s over. Give up. Let it go. Stop struggling.” continued to rise as it always does - where I am holding my breath and waiting, waiting, waiting for it to recede. One of the things I do while I wait is remind myself that my kids need me - that my death would devastate them, that even if it’s a life of guilt and obligation, of not wanting to add to the legacy of fucked-up-ness that comes with being born into this family - it’s something I’m willing to do for them. It’s something to hang on to - that even if I’m crazy and can’t really function or participate, they know I love them and that I’m here for them as best as I can be, all things considered.
But then, Drew had a bit of a meltdown, herself - and it came out that she feels shitty and a big part of it is because of me. How helpless she feels. How much dread she feels, living under threat of knowing how often I feel like dying - not to mention the daily grind of how she knows how shitty it is for me - the worry for me, the desire that things were different and how there doesn’t seem to be anything that helps and, it’s just gotten progressively worse and worse.

Well.

I hadn’t even considered that. It has freaked me out. To hear that, reminded me of Peter and how his alcoholism affected other people. That was always a point of contention - I used to rail at him:
”DON’T YOU SEE WHAT THIS IS DOING TO US AND THE KIDS?!”
(Not that it did any fucking good, but it was in my arsenal for years.)
And now, I’m that person.
My life is negatively impacting the people I love the most.
My contribution has gone from good to bad.

So, the shift.

From:
I can’t commit suicide because it would devastate my kids.

To:
Maybe they’d be better off without me.

And, Peter.
That poor bastard. I have a lot of compassion for him, y’know? He’s been pretty incredible in the midst of this shit storm that passes for a life. He’s been patient and caring and supportive and (somehow) sober. He does everything for me. And, for the most part, he does it with good cheer and with no thought for himself. I return the favour with an absolutely staggering ambivalence or, a completely blank stare because I don’t recognize him or us - as-a-couple - anymore. He remains unflagging in his friendship and kindness toward me and all I can do is apologize for being a burden. We have nothing left. I don’t even know if I love him anymore - if I EVER loved him, really, in retrospect because my interpretation of what love actually IS is so warped and broken that I can’t even feel it anymore.
I. can’t. feel. it.
I never say it.
I tell him to leave me, I say:

”Save yourself. You could find some peace or happiness or companionship or whatever - without me. You should go. You still have time.”

But he won’t go.
I don’t understand it.
He has said that I helped him and continued to love him and that I believed in him when he was sick and crazy and couldn’t stay sober. He says he wants to do whatever he can for me to return that - to give that back to me for all those years I gave it to him. But I don’t want his pity or obligation - even though he tells me it’s NOT pity and obligation - that it’s love and partnership.
I don’t know.
I feel like we’re square, like we’re even - and to keep him chained to me, like this, is just shitty and unfair.
Bit of an impasse, that.
I’m not so crazy to think that other people can’t have a future or hope or a chance at life.
There it is again:
Maybe he’d be better off without me.

Last updated July 23, 2015