Lordy, that was a rough one. Definitely more depression than anxiety - the doldrums beat the anxiety attacks on a three day emotional disorder bender.
I'm better.
I wanted to say that before all else in case anyone has been unduly worried. When I write with candour I don't mean to terrify, but I guess if you're peering inside my head for the first time then it might be just a little...surprising. Don't forget that my shrink is CC'd in on all this so that I can be a walking, talking case study, which means it helps to be as candid as possible.
Isn't it strange to think that I'm proverbially scribbling by flashlight under the duvet, yet what I write can be seen be people on the other side of the planet. Instantly.
So the chaps in my life have been keeping me busy. Andrew and Ian on Friday, Sa'ad and the other Ian on Saturday. Sunday I had the most spectacular no-front-brake-ride in the Don valley. Alas yes, the saga of the ordered but not yet received hydraulic brake pads continues, though when I rolled out of bed today there was a note from Canada Post to say that I'd missed the 9.00am to 9.01am 'window' to collect them. Nice. So now I have to wait until after 1pm tomorrow to collect them. Fuckers. I used to have the same hate-hate relationship with Royal Mail in the UK too.
However, as said, it is still possible to ride. The riverside trail is navigable without a front brake, as is Tommy Thompson Park/Leslie Spit.
Talking of the latter, a funny thing happened the other day. As I zipped my way back towards mainland from the grassy side of the spit, my left crank started to fall off. This is weird and ominous and stuff, because the same thing happened in my first 'open' ten mile time trial in the UK, circa 1986. The reason I bring it up though, is because I was strangely calm. All because I simply didn't believe that I would have to walk my bike the whatever-it-is miles from South of the Lakeshore Boulevard to North of the Danforth.
The first person I came across was a twitcher. He was very helpful but had only a Swiss Army knife on him. My problem was that I needed an 8mm Allen key to re-attach my left crank. Alas, it wasn't that I needed to remove a stone from a horse's hoof, file my nails, open a bottle of champagne, trim the leaves from a fine floral bouquet, or poke something with that funny pointy thing. I wished him well as I replaced the crank and tightened the bolt attaching it to the rest of the bike as tightly as I could with my lillywhite fingers.
Ten minutes later I repeated said tightening process, having ridden the nearest path possible from shrubland to tarmac, or should I say asphalt. The chap manning the gate and the end of the spit didn't have a toolbox with him, but I spied a guy fixing a puncture just before Canadian Tire.
The point is that he had a 8mm hex wrench, I fixed it, and all with not so much as a single flap. No nerves. No dread. And that's the thing about anxiety - there is no rational fear behind your feeling of dread. When my shrink asks me, "So what did you fear would happen?" I can't answer, because it's intangible. It's the fear of something so horrible I haven't even though of it.
There's never details. No specific bones broken, no bloody crime scene...just that sickly feeling.
My mind is backing up with thoughts so I'm just going to post this and try to catch up in the background.
29 April 2009
28 April 2009
Woah there Nelly
I can't write a full entry just now because the deadlines I've been procrastinating about are now biting me on the arse, so I have to focus on those.
However, it should be noted that for the last two or three days I've been better for a number of reasons.
The other really important thing to note is that I didn't suddenly wake up one day this April feeling the way I've described. This may be new to you, dear reader, but I've felt this way on-and-off since I was around ten years old. It was only when I was diagnosed some 25 years later I realised that everyone else doesn't feel the same way.
More to follow...
However, it should be noted that for the last two or three days I've been better for a number of reasons.
The other really important thing to note is that I didn't suddenly wake up one day this April feeling the way I've described. This may be new to you, dear reader, but I've felt this way on-and-off since I was around ten years old. It was only when I was diagnosed some 25 years later I realised that everyone else doesn't feel the same way.
More to follow...
24 April 2009
Joi-de-vivre
That's irony by the way, not notification of a volte-face in terms of my condition.
There were two reasons why I started blogging. One was merely writing practice for work and for the novel I've been procrastinating about for the last three years or so. The other was to derive the known medical benefits from journaling that those who know (doctors and the like) say are possible.
But, it's difficult to know what to write about when I'm like *cough cough* this. I guess I should probably bite the bullet and start talking about my condition a bit more. After all, I do commonly tell the brutal truth when asked questions about it, in the hope that the more people I tell, involve, inform, educate then over the long term the less of a stigma there'll be associated with mental illness. I'm always quoting them but Katz & Khan did say in 1976 that, "...what we do not understand, we fear".
Let's start with the GAD which, ironically, is also my initials. Talk about an illness one was born to have!
It starts when I open my eyes in the morning (or, if it's bad, the afternoon). I haven't really relished a lie-in in years. Have you ever needed to get out of bed on-time for a specific, important reason? Job interview? To catch a flight somewhere? Make a wedding reception that requires a bit of a drive? Now recall the feeling when you've had to wake for that certain special something, but slept in by mistake. It doesn't matter why. You open your eyes, probably squint like I do, roll over and nudge a pillow out of the way so you can see the face of the alarm clock properly. It takes a few seconds at first - the disbelief, the confusion. "That clock can't be right?!" Then you realise how bright it is in the bedroom because the sun's already up. It's not just the dawn chorus you hear outside, but traffic, the dustmen, cell phones ringing, dogs barking, a million tiny things that - in a nanosecond - bring the crushing realisation that the clock is right, you are wrong, and before you've even set a foot on the carpeted floor you've already been left behind by the planet and are already a few hours in arrears.
Now imagine that's the feeling you get every day, regardless of whether you had something to get up for or not. More than likely it's the afternoon, you don't own a car, have declined any wedding invitations or just not bothered to RSVP, and wouldn't be touched with a ten-foot barge pole by any employer who knows you for that "damaged goods" reason.
That's how my mind likes to start the day, and it's followed by that same blind panic one feels when one's slept in. The mind races - Quick!? What do you need to do first? Shower? Find clothes? Find keys? Subway pass? Eat breakfast? Smoke a cigarette? Grab a glass of water? Phone someone to tell them you're running late? What deadlines have been missed? What's happened? Am I out of medication? Was I supposed to meet someone somewhere? Your heart pounds, you notice sweat, you'll start a hundred things and finish none of them, your hands may tremble. It's LITERALLY, blind, chicken with it's head cut off, running-into-the-walls-panic.
It's not a great way to start the day. It's not like the clip of Jerry Maguire when the real-life sports agent professional says, "When I wake up, I jump out of bed and clap my hands." I just grimly envy people like that.
My disorder then likes to have me run around the house to make sure everything's OK. Is anything on fire? Are the doors closed and locked? Has something happened? Has everyone who knows me decided to pop over to the house that day and are now downstairs, tutting, looking at their watches in disgust? Is this even where I live?
Once the initial panic has passed and I conclude that neither I, the house, nor my hair are on fire it gives me chance to breathe and take in the view. The surroundings are also GAD/depression-indicative. The two disorders tend to go hand-in-hand apparently, feeding off each other, fuelling each other in an ever-decreasing circle of mood disintegration. The first tell-tale evidence is the way I went to bed, which can't have been normal because the curtains are open and/or the bedside light is still on. A downward glance shows the trail of clothes leading from the bedroom door to where I literally fell into bed drunk and/or stoned. The 'real' Glyn underneath is meticulously organised, nerdish, house-proud. This room doesn't look like my room. This life doesn't look like my life, apart from the first year at university when the marks on exams and assignments didn't affect the final degree classification and everyone was smashed for half a year.
As I explore the house my student-esque behaviour from the night before becomes more evident. My bedroom door opens like the stone entrance to a Mayan tomb...because despite all my efforts there's a pile of clothes behind it that stop it from opening. It's a mixture of workout stuff, coats, clean clothes and dirty, probably with some semi-opened mail and at least one pair of headphones tangled up in it for good measure. I can tell which rooms I was in the night before. The most obvious indicators are the empty beer cans, wine bottles, glasses, spilled weed and grubby plates from snacking. Sometimes it's difficult to believe it's all from one person because it looks more like someone threw a gigantic party.
Quantities vary depending on the severity of symptoms, but tucking away two-and-a-half litres of beer (4-5 pints), half a litre of red and/or white wine (about a pint), and 2-4 joints on a weekday evening wouldn't be uncommon. When my insomnia's really bad I'll often have a few hits on the bong just before bed to try to knock myself out in order to sleep...on top of all the above.
Then cometh the shame and self-loathing.
How could I be such a lush? When I'm so short of money, how could I be so irresponsible as to plough through so much booze in one night? How could I be so untidy, so out of order, such a bad housemate? How did I manage to make such a mess? There's so much to clear up that there doesn't seem any point in trying. I must be awful to live with. What on Earth did I eat? Peanut butter on rice cakes, and the rice cakes aren't even mine! I'll be in trouble if I don't replace them immediately.
GAD is limited only by one's intelligence and imagination - the more of each you have, the more ways GAD can find to torture you.
This is one of the ways clinical depression and GAD work in symbiosis. As I survey the consequences of another night binging, half-dressed and hung over, I start to think things like, "There's no point. The day is already halfway gone, I'm not even dressed, and the place is a disaster. I'm not going to get anything productive done today so why bother?" Earlier this week I managed to get up before 8am but was so reviled by the thought of doing everything I had to do that I just went back to bed until circa 3pm.
Since I'm chemically addicted to nicotine (rather than socially addicted) I tend to crave the most in the morning. So, I will attempt to disguise the fact that I'm not dressed at lunchtime, throw a coat over my dressing gown or pyjamas, and sneak onto the porch. Naturally I expect everyone from the entire neighbourhood to be waiting on the front lawn, chorusing, "We see you! We know you're lazy! We know you just got up! You're disgusting, you should be ashamed, you're a slob, you're a joke, you're one of those people who bums along on the outskirts of society, you're a waste of space!" They're never there but I have already subconsciously adjusted my thoughts and behaviour. I look down in shame so as not to risk eye contact with anyone by accident, heaven forbid the next-door neighbour. My shoulders hunch and I tend to shuffle in the hope that if someone does notice me, they'll assume I'm physically ill rather than dishevelled in the middle of the day for no good reason. I hide behind the wall of the porch, hunched in my seat so as to hide that fact I'm still wearing pyjamas. The nicotine calms me physiologically, but then triggers more self-loathing psychologically. "I really must give this up, it's just making me worse. I can barely afford food so there's no way I can afford cigarettes. My parents would be ashamed. I'll probably get lung cancer and die on top of everything else now. Would anyone notice if I did? If I were to just quietly sneak into a dim corner somewhere, coughing up blood and interminably rattling to a phlegm-ridden early grave? People would probably just wonder what the smell was."
The sunshine helps, if there is any, but more often than not I will use my morning (sic) smoke-time to reflect on the fact that I'm little over a month from 38, ill, broke, divorced, unemployed, pathetic, and useless...an embarrassment to all who know and are related to me. All the things I want to do and have to do continue to run through my mind but then get stuck in a procrastinating cycle. The GAD makes me worry about what I need to do, and the depression makes me think there's no point in trying to get any of it done because either I won't be able to, or because there's just more to do behind it. It stops me from achieving anything, paving the way for a new round of anxiety straight afterwards about the fact that I have so much to do and haven't done any of it. Cue more self-loathing.
The cigarette makes my breath and fingers on my right hand stink, but if I'm really down then I'll just wash away the taste with coffee rather than muster the massive effort it would take to brush my teeth. I turn my back on the neighbourhood as I stand up in one deft, well-practiced manoeuvre that means I don't have to risk eye contact as I scuttle back inside the house and immediately lock the front door behind me.
The smell of stale beer and wine reminds me I have to tidy before I do anything else, and I am unable to decide whether to shower first, breakfast first, or go through the house like Martha Stewart. Inevitably all three cancel each other out and it will be a superhuman effort to tear myself away from Facebook, e-mail, eBay, and generally faffing about. A phone call or knock at the door during this period triggers panic, and I immediately assume someone is trying to reach me because I owe them something, or am in trouble for something.
All this, and I've only been awake for half an hour. Welcome to my world. If you're already surprised then wait 'til I tell you about the challenges of actually, physically leaving the house and going out in public...
There were two reasons why I started blogging. One was merely writing practice for work and for the novel I've been procrastinating about for the last three years or so. The other was to derive the known medical benefits from journaling that those who know (doctors and the like) say are possible.
But, it's difficult to know what to write about when I'm like *cough cough* this. I guess I should probably bite the bullet and start talking about my condition a bit more. After all, I do commonly tell the brutal truth when asked questions about it, in the hope that the more people I tell, involve, inform, educate then over the long term the less of a stigma there'll be associated with mental illness. I'm always quoting them but Katz & Khan did say in 1976 that, "...what we do not understand, we fear".
Let's start with the GAD which, ironically, is also my initials. Talk about an illness one was born to have!
It starts when I open my eyes in the morning (or, if it's bad, the afternoon). I haven't really relished a lie-in in years. Have you ever needed to get out of bed on-time for a specific, important reason? Job interview? To catch a flight somewhere? Make a wedding reception that requires a bit of a drive? Now recall the feeling when you've had to wake for that certain special something, but slept in by mistake. It doesn't matter why. You open your eyes, probably squint like I do, roll over and nudge a pillow out of the way so you can see the face of the alarm clock properly. It takes a few seconds at first - the disbelief, the confusion. "That clock can't be right?!" Then you realise how bright it is in the bedroom because the sun's already up. It's not just the dawn chorus you hear outside, but traffic, the dustmen, cell phones ringing, dogs barking, a million tiny things that - in a nanosecond - bring the crushing realisation that the clock is right, you are wrong, and before you've even set a foot on the carpeted floor you've already been left behind by the planet and are already a few hours in arrears.
Now imagine that's the feeling you get every day, regardless of whether you had something to get up for or not. More than likely it's the afternoon, you don't own a car, have declined any wedding invitations or just not bothered to RSVP, and wouldn't be touched with a ten-foot barge pole by any employer who knows you for that "damaged goods" reason.
That's how my mind likes to start the day, and it's followed by that same blind panic one feels when one's slept in. The mind races - Quick!? What do you need to do first? Shower? Find clothes? Find keys? Subway pass? Eat breakfast? Smoke a cigarette? Grab a glass of water? Phone someone to tell them you're running late? What deadlines have been missed? What's happened? Am I out of medication? Was I supposed to meet someone somewhere? Your heart pounds, you notice sweat, you'll start a hundred things and finish none of them, your hands may tremble. It's LITERALLY, blind, chicken with it's head cut off, running-into-the-walls-panic.
It's not a great way to start the day. It's not like the clip of Jerry Maguire when the real-life sports agent professional says, "When I wake up, I jump out of bed and clap my hands." I just grimly envy people like that.
My disorder then likes to have me run around the house to make sure everything's OK. Is anything on fire? Are the doors closed and locked? Has something happened? Has everyone who knows me decided to pop over to the house that day and are now downstairs, tutting, looking at their watches in disgust? Is this even where I live?
Once the initial panic has passed and I conclude that neither I, the house, nor my hair are on fire it gives me chance to breathe and take in the view. The surroundings are also GAD/depression-indicative. The two disorders tend to go hand-in-hand apparently, feeding off each other, fuelling each other in an ever-decreasing circle of mood disintegration. The first tell-tale evidence is the way I went to bed, which can't have been normal because the curtains are open and/or the bedside light is still on. A downward glance shows the trail of clothes leading from the bedroom door to where I literally fell into bed drunk and/or stoned. The 'real' Glyn underneath is meticulously organised, nerdish, house-proud. This room doesn't look like my room. This life doesn't look like my life, apart from the first year at university when the marks on exams and assignments didn't affect the final degree classification and everyone was smashed for half a year.
As I explore the house my student-esque behaviour from the night before becomes more evident. My bedroom door opens like the stone entrance to a Mayan tomb...because despite all my efforts there's a pile of clothes behind it that stop it from opening. It's a mixture of workout stuff, coats, clean clothes and dirty, probably with some semi-opened mail and at least one pair of headphones tangled up in it for good measure. I can tell which rooms I was in the night before. The most obvious indicators are the empty beer cans, wine bottles, glasses, spilled weed and grubby plates from snacking. Sometimes it's difficult to believe it's all from one person because it looks more like someone threw a gigantic party.
Quantities vary depending on the severity of symptoms, but tucking away two-and-a-half litres of beer (4-5 pints), half a litre of red and/or white wine (about a pint), and 2-4 joints on a weekday evening wouldn't be uncommon. When my insomnia's really bad I'll often have a few hits on the bong just before bed to try to knock myself out in order to sleep...on top of all the above.
Then cometh the shame and self-loathing.
How could I be such a lush? When I'm so short of money, how could I be so irresponsible as to plough through so much booze in one night? How could I be so untidy, so out of order, such a bad housemate? How did I manage to make such a mess? There's so much to clear up that there doesn't seem any point in trying. I must be awful to live with. What on Earth did I eat? Peanut butter on rice cakes, and the rice cakes aren't even mine! I'll be in trouble if I don't replace them immediately.
GAD is limited only by one's intelligence and imagination - the more of each you have, the more ways GAD can find to torture you.
This is one of the ways clinical depression and GAD work in symbiosis. As I survey the consequences of another night binging, half-dressed and hung over, I start to think things like, "There's no point. The day is already halfway gone, I'm not even dressed, and the place is a disaster. I'm not going to get anything productive done today so why bother?" Earlier this week I managed to get up before 8am but was so reviled by the thought of doing everything I had to do that I just went back to bed until circa 3pm.
Since I'm chemically addicted to nicotine (rather than socially addicted) I tend to crave the most in the morning. So, I will attempt to disguise the fact that I'm not dressed at lunchtime, throw a coat over my dressing gown or pyjamas, and sneak onto the porch. Naturally I expect everyone from the entire neighbourhood to be waiting on the front lawn, chorusing, "We see you! We know you're lazy! We know you just got up! You're disgusting, you should be ashamed, you're a slob, you're a joke, you're one of those people who bums along on the outskirts of society, you're a waste of space!" They're never there but I have already subconsciously adjusted my thoughts and behaviour. I look down in shame so as not to risk eye contact with anyone by accident, heaven forbid the next-door neighbour. My shoulders hunch and I tend to shuffle in the hope that if someone does notice me, they'll assume I'm physically ill rather than dishevelled in the middle of the day for no good reason. I hide behind the wall of the porch, hunched in my seat so as to hide that fact I'm still wearing pyjamas. The nicotine calms me physiologically, but then triggers more self-loathing psychologically. "I really must give this up, it's just making me worse. I can barely afford food so there's no way I can afford cigarettes. My parents would be ashamed. I'll probably get lung cancer and die on top of everything else now. Would anyone notice if I did? If I were to just quietly sneak into a dim corner somewhere, coughing up blood and interminably rattling to a phlegm-ridden early grave? People would probably just wonder what the smell was."
The sunshine helps, if there is any, but more often than not I will use my morning (sic) smoke-time to reflect on the fact that I'm little over a month from 38, ill, broke, divorced, unemployed, pathetic, and useless...an embarrassment to all who know and are related to me. All the things I want to do and have to do continue to run through my mind but then get stuck in a procrastinating cycle. The GAD makes me worry about what I need to do, and the depression makes me think there's no point in trying to get any of it done because either I won't be able to, or because there's just more to do behind it. It stops me from achieving anything, paving the way for a new round of anxiety straight afterwards about the fact that I have so much to do and haven't done any of it. Cue more self-loathing.
The cigarette makes my breath and fingers on my right hand stink, but if I'm really down then I'll just wash away the taste with coffee rather than muster the massive effort it would take to brush my teeth. I turn my back on the neighbourhood as I stand up in one deft, well-practiced manoeuvre that means I don't have to risk eye contact as I scuttle back inside the house and immediately lock the front door behind me.
The smell of stale beer and wine reminds me I have to tidy before I do anything else, and I am unable to decide whether to shower first, breakfast first, or go through the house like Martha Stewart. Inevitably all three cancel each other out and it will be a superhuman effort to tear myself away from Facebook, e-mail, eBay, and generally faffing about. A phone call or knock at the door during this period triggers panic, and I immediately assume someone is trying to reach me because I owe them something, or am in trouble for something.
All this, and I've only been awake for half an hour. Welcome to my world. If you're already surprised then wait 'til I tell you about the challenges of actually, physically leaving the house and going out in public...
23 April 2009
Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.
Still feel like the rug's been pulled out from beneath me. Fitness regime stalling, sleep regimen all over the place, not eating right. Able to achieve basic motor functions more than the last two days, though managing to get dressed and brush my teeth won't win me a Nobel anytime soon. Anxiety manageable, but depression conquers all. Currently asleep or in bed for more hours than I'm out of it, still extremely reluctant to leave the house, and cower away at the thought of any kind of social contact other than with extremely close friends.
Made it to therapy, but there's still only one thing I'm talking and/or thinking about.
Made it to therapy, but there's still only one thing I'm talking and/or thinking about.
22 April 2009
Something is coming...
...but I don't yet know what it is. I'm four beers and half a bottle of wine into the evening, topped off with a few mellow tokes on the trusty V-tower. I really need to start growing my own weed and distilling my own beer. It's just economic.
Work life: has been unchanged...save a proposal I have in for some new business at HIEC. Fingers crossed. It's a fab organisation, one of those with intrinsic feelgood factor.
The mash-up of Josh Winx: "Higher State of Consciousness" and Public Enemy: "Bring the Noise" is playing on a 1996 mixtape of mine in the background. Awesome. I lost seven years whilst married. Seven years without really having hands on vinyl, whether in the bedroom or on the tables. Both are paramount.
Love life: currently being crushed like a newbie surfer 'neath the waves of California's coastline. Out of my depth, madly in love with a woman I can't see. Madly in love with a woman I've never seen. Madly in love with a woman who forbids I mention her name. Owing to the peaks and troughs of the last five months with cyber-her I have gone from a standing start, to having the rest of my life pretty much mapped out, along with the people with whom I'll spend it, to feeling ostricised, lied to, ridiculed, humiliated, and triggered back into anxiety and depression I haven't seen the severity of since I split from Nicole in October last year. As I type, we have fallen out for the sixth or seventh time, and have just ballsed-up our - I guess - 12th or 13th attempt at meeting face-to-face. She is - allegedly - en route back from E&R but, and this is the whole problem with an SMS-only relationship, I can no longer tell when she's telling the truth and when she isn't. I am lost, awash, heartbroken, unable to fulfill my most basic necessary role in a relationship, tempted and teased but never satisfied, tortured with the grisly reality of everything going on in her life without being able to help, react, step in, take control, sit back, support, reassure, love, cuddle, hug, kiss, fondle, wash, massage, listen, coax, stroke...without being able to...anything.
Don't get me wrong though, I love her madly. My instinct tells me I'd be good for her. We're attracted, sexually and intellectually. She needs help. I have the personality type that requires me to help. If I can't help, I can't function. Meanwhile she needs love, lots of love, love every morning and every night. Something I could give, easily, naturally, with spare. And she'd be so good for me. We'd be more than the sum of our parts. But, as Aesop said, one can lead a horse to water...
Now you know my pain. Well, one of them anyway. OK, so you may not know my pain per se, but you know what's on my mind. Fuck off. Who's blog is this anyway huh? *staggers and falls over the table behind him*
Physical life: six-pack outline developing but no actual six pack. Divots in shoulders. Definition under armpits evident. Bike in repairs, fighting nicotine addiction on an hourly basis. Self-medicating like crazy. Diet poor for the last week or so due to procrastination of groceries expedition (je nais pas une voiture) and the nearest (cheap) grocery store is a 25-minute walk away.
Unh...take it or leave it, this is all I can manage. Hopefully tomorrow will be better, as I always say.
Work life: has been unchanged...save a proposal I have in for some new business at HIEC. Fingers crossed. It's a fab organisation, one of those with intrinsic feelgood factor.
The mash-up of Josh Winx: "Higher State of Consciousness" and Public Enemy: "Bring the Noise" is playing on a 1996 mixtape of mine in the background. Awesome. I lost seven years whilst married. Seven years without really having hands on vinyl, whether in the bedroom or on the tables. Both are paramount.
Love life: currently being crushed like a newbie surfer 'neath the waves of California's coastline. Out of my depth, madly in love with a woman I can't see. Madly in love with a woman I've never seen. Madly in love with a woman who forbids I mention her name. Owing to the peaks and troughs of the last five months with cyber-her I have gone from a standing start, to having the rest of my life pretty much mapped out, along with the people with whom I'll spend it, to feeling ostricised, lied to, ridiculed, humiliated, and triggered back into anxiety and depression I haven't seen the severity of since I split from Nicole in October last year. As I type, we have fallen out for the sixth or seventh time, and have just ballsed-up our - I guess - 12th or 13th attempt at meeting face-to-face. She is - allegedly - en route back from E&R but, and this is the whole problem with an SMS-only relationship, I can no longer tell when she's telling the truth and when she isn't. I am lost, awash, heartbroken, unable to fulfill my most basic necessary role in a relationship, tempted and teased but never satisfied, tortured with the grisly reality of everything going on in her life without being able to help, react, step in, take control, sit back, support, reassure, love, cuddle, hug, kiss, fondle, wash, massage, listen, coax, stroke...without being able to...anything.
Don't get me wrong though, I love her madly. My instinct tells me I'd be good for her. We're attracted, sexually and intellectually. She needs help. I have the personality type that requires me to help. If I can't help, I can't function. Meanwhile she needs love, lots of love, love every morning and every night. Something I could give, easily, naturally, with spare. And she'd be so good for me. We'd be more than the sum of our parts. But, as Aesop said, one can lead a horse to water...
Now you know my pain. Well, one of them anyway. OK, so you may not know my pain per se, but you know what's on my mind. Fuck off. Who's blog is this anyway huh? *staggers and falls over the table behind him*
Physical life: six-pack outline developing but no actual six pack. Divots in shoulders. Definition under armpits evident. Bike in repairs, fighting nicotine addiction on an hourly basis. Self-medicating like crazy. Diet poor for the last week or so due to procrastination of groceries expedition (je nais pas une voiture) and the nearest (cheap) grocery store is a 25-minute walk away.
Unh...take it or leave it, this is all I can manage. Hopefully tomorrow will be better, as I always say.
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