Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned in Mental Masturbation in Montréal: Confessions from the Boulevard

Sunny'n'cold again today.

Again, again, again...

it's been the longest-ass winter of my mid-life-meltdown-malcontent...

in Montreal.

Meh.

Things:

Jake isn't doing so hot. He finally stomped out of his job after two years of utter bullshit. Even with complaints to HR, nothing improved. It was (continues to be) a blatantly hostile/toxic work environment. In short: it's a big-name-you'd-recognize gaming software company INUNDATED with on-the-autism-spectrum mouth-breathers who had to be repeatedly reminded by management to bathe. Gamers and testers who've never socialized beyond a porn-virus-addled computer monitor outside of their mother's basements and don't fully grasp the idea that masturbating in public is generally frowned-upon. Really special fellas, these guys. Naturally, these sloped-foreheaded, micro-penised gentlemen are pretty homophobic. Weird, right? Jake complained. Nothing was done. Jake complained again. HR "took a statement". Nothing was done. Jake complained some more. Others complained. Some kind of "sensitivity training" came and went where everyone (including Jake's supervisor) giggled and farted and scratched at their unwashed genitals in an effort to understand this downright perplexing and oft-befuddling crazy moon-language. Other people quit or transferred. Meanwhile, Jake performed well and went from tester to bug-fix report-writer yet was always over-looked for raises and/or promotions. Jake would do 100 reports a day while the surrounding not-so-sweet-smelling swarm of idiot-savants did five or ten because most of their time was eaten up by modeling their furry costumes, valiantly guarding their virginity with their filthy neckbeards and hurling around the word "fag" on a minute-to-minute basis. Among other charming behaviours. (Reminder: It's "Survival of the most adaptable." and NOT "Survival of the fittest." - which, in this case, reminds me of cockroaches. Those disgusting vermin can, and will, survive a fucking nuclear winter. Fuckin' gross.) ANYGAY. Jake has initiated a fairly damning EI (employment insurance) claim and is hoping Service Canada will investigate because:

Canada/Charter of Rights and Freedoms/Province of Quebec/This Shit's Illegal.

Also because:

Hey, big-name gaming-software company higher-ups? Get a load of this shit. d00d.

ALSO-ALSO BECAUSE:

It's fucking 2014, you fucking halfwits.

In addition, Jake is struggling with his mood (just diagnosed with major depressive disorder - THANKS, GENETICS!!!), the resulting financial fuckery that comes with stomping out of your job AND!!!, his boyfriend is being a tiny bit of a totally-unsupportive douche. Basically, things are shit for Jake at the moment and I'm Momma-Bear worried about him. SIGH.

I'm carefully advising him as best I can without getting all up in his grill or, allowing him all up in mine because: Hi! Still fairly insane myself, over here! Boundaries, people! Jesus! Plus, we're all adults and the days of me being Super-Mommy-to-the-Rescue are over.

O-VER.

So, yeah.

Speaking of "still fairly insane myself..." the saga continues.

I've been in Montreal for six months now. I have made SOME strides but I still feel very much in limbo and the waiting and waiting and waiting is starting to grate on my last already-horribly-frayed nerve.

To wit:

I have seen four different psychiatrists who have sent me on four different wild goose chases. (Mostly an art/not quite a science, this psychiatry. amirite?) Somewhat-still-compliant me has shown up for the Borderline Personality Disorder clinic appointment (didn't pass the assessment... uhhhh... yay?).

Then, there were three sessions of one-on-one counseling with a social worker who appeared to know very little about one-on-one counseling but quite a bit about ENORMOUSLY ELABORATE INFINITY SCARVES. Plus, she was too... blinky. I'd rhyme off the details of my latest "episode" and she'd just... blink at me. Um. Bye.

Then, there was the six-weeks-long (I lasted eight days) day-program for assorted looneytoonz who were either: leaving the in-patient program and transitioning back into their totally amazing pre-lock-up lives or, like me: doing everything in their totally disenfranchised and completely marginalized power to AVOID being tossed into the locked ward for however long it takes to form extremely inappropriate and incestuous relationships with the OTHER assorted looneytoonz. Right?!?!? Plus, the psychiatrist running this day-program was all:

"Susan! Try THESE meds!"

While I was all:

"Naw, son. Thanks, though!"

Bless his pointy-little-head, he DID (kinda-sorta - but I had to make approximately 483 follow-up phonecalls in his wake) set me up with ANOTHER clinic that does a less-invasive-than-electroconvulsive therapy neuromodulation treatment that's specifically for us looneytoonz whom are considered medication-resistant-failures. Seriously. I've tried them alllllllllll. Trust.

SO!

As of last Tuesday, I sat with yet ANOTHER psychiatrist who assessed me to be a candidate for this treatment:
Zzzzztttt!

and lo! and yea verily! more waiting!

Now... though I may SOUND like a bitter-ungrateful-hag, in fact, I am not. Here's why:

The Borderline clinic is run by some top-notch/world-renowned dude whose made his whole career on it. Like, this guy edits the Canadian Medical Journal or some shit. He's got 50 letters behind his name and has written/lectured/taught volumes on this shit.

The pointy-headed day-program drug-pusher? Top pharmacology-specialist-dude at McGill and probably, in Canada.

And, this neuromodulation clinic? Cutting-edge technology not yet found in... say... Hicksville... any time soon.

And for the most part, everyone I've dealt with has been extremely kind and helpful and friendly. Nary a snooty-rude-ass-Quebec-French prick among them!

I guess it's just that I've felt so incredibly unstable for such an incredibly long time that six relatively short months just SEEMS longer. Plus, I've been all het up on getting some OTHER shit taken care of... namely: mammograms and bloodwork and pap-smears and x-rays and cancer-screenings and genetic-testing and the always-a-treat impending down-the-throat/up-the-butt scopes.

SO FUN!

Basically, the last six months have been a blur of seeing doctors and going to various appointments. Being krazykakes is my new full-time job! I've also seen three crisis-intervention community support workers and that's helped a bit. <--- Yet another thing you won't find in Hicksville.

Meaning: moving to Montreal - IT.WAS.TIME.

And now, I wait some more - six to eight weeks for a spot in this program and then, the actual treatment can take six to eight weeks to complete. Which sounds...

JIM DANDY!!!

... except for the fact that I have plans to be back in Ontario in June (12-16 weeks from now, do the math) to see my-gurl-Drew graduate from high school and... oh, yeah... pack up and move her (and Peter. what. keep reading.) back here, to Montreal.

See, after much (SO.MUCH. HOLY FUCK, I WANTED TO CHOKE HER!) deliberation, she applied at the absolute.last.possible.second. to go to university here. Still waiting on her acceptance letter. And even if she doesn't get in (due to her late application), she's ready to leave Hicksville and all its inherent "basic bitches" and take a year off to work and get to know this city. Okay, sez me. The mass exodus continues.

Of note: Peter went back to Hicksville yesterday after a five-day Montreal!March!Break!Madness! visit. Apart from the (goddamned!fucking!freezing!) weather, it went well.

We hung out - ALONE.

We did a few touristy walk-abouts.

We snuggled in and watched movies.

We made dinner and treats and hung out with Jake.

We talked.

We sifted through the remains.

We worked on our friendship.

It was good. It was relaxed. It was 90% stress-free.

It was weird.

Heh.

We also went and looked at four apartments and settled on one, in particular. Because: he is ALSO ready to leave Hicksville and his job for the rich-cocks. Seems them-there Swells are about to pull up stakes and sell the compound, anyway... what with that-there sooper-dooper expensive divorce an' all. Plus, Peter is totally knackered and busted-up and just turned fuckin' 50, ferchrissakes. This is what happens when you mostly use your brawn - as opposed to your brain - to make a living.

Poor bastard.

He wants more out of life and I don't blame him one bit. For all his crazy-ass nonsense, Peter busted his goddamned HUMP and worked to support me and the life-sucking-vampires, I mean... the little darlings - all these years. And, in Hicksville - where unemployment is a lifestyle, the next step down is: part-time at Tim Horton's.

So, here comes the terror and uncertainty and the "What next? What if? What the HELL, yo?" and all the other shit that comes with major-life-altering-change and there you'll find him. And me. And everyone you know because NO-ONE GETS OUT ALIVE!!!

So onward ho, motherfuckers.

About 67306 things need to happen first, but, Peter and Drew are moving to Montreal.

Whether I join them or not or, continue on with my

Year of KrazyKakez-ness Solitude - remains to be seen.

Because: for all my feeling alone and lonely, I've ALSO rilly-rilly-rilly enjoyed the silence and the not being on duty or expected to do ANYTHING relationship- or Mommy-based if I don't feeeeeeel like it.

BITCHES.

Plus, there's been that whole years-long/on-going

"The fucking marriage is fucking over!"

thing. Well... THAT (fucking!) incarnation of it is over, at least.

I dunno, I dunno. I dunno.

Lately, I hardly EVER know.

Anything.

Ever.

And "The older I get, the LESS I know." is a true story.

I'm always going on and on and ON about "Roll with it!" and "Radical acceptance!" and "It just IS." and "Let it go, already!" and there's life, chugging along and basically

CLOBBERING ME OVER THE HEAD AND FORCING ME TO DO ALL OF THOSE THINGS, EVERY.SINGLE.DAY.

And the clock's tickin' and here I am, I'm still here! Somehow, I'm still alive - still choosing to live.

It makes zero sense to me.

I feel a horrible sucking vortex of cosmic loneliness and who doesn't love a roll in the nihilist-absurdist hay??? - often within moments of each other.

It's hell.

I'm one seriously angsty-beeyotch on a good day. Huh. I'm 43 years old and I know NOTHING. It's kind of a relief, actually.

Okay... I'm done. 'kaybye.

(Also: the prosebox formatting - sorry. No clue! Good luck!)