The third quarter

Yeeesssss!!!!

I haven't used that word since I saw the first 'face' picture of a woman I'd met on a dating website, and realised she was a total babe rather than a one-eyed monoped with an unabrow (or actually a 250lb computer hacker conman). Admittedly, we're six months down the road from that day and still haven't met, but that's besides the point. At the time, I was ecstatic.

I managed to make it to the solomag.ca launch event on-time, despite only remembering circa 4pm that the event started at 6pm. It wasn't as bad as I feared in that I managed to get the demons under control enough to be able to function, although I single-handedly kept the Philip Morris Co. shares up by chain smoking on the way. Fortunately for me I was introduced by the magazine founder to her family the minute I walked in the door, and didn't have to stand alone in a room full of strangers - potentially my most uncomfortable fear. By the time I'd run out of things to say to them, a friend turned up that I knew from DDB PR so I had someone to cling on to for the rest of the evening.

Two guest speakers gave me enough time to chug a couple of glasses of white wine so I was enable to relax a little, and at least un-hunch my shoulders. I knew that media people were there so I'd hoped to charm the pants clean off a nice managing editor from the Globe & Mail or similar. Alas, the first group I approached included a PR woman from Desjardins and a furniture & lighting designer. Don't get me wrong - they were both lovely women, and we even shared a laugh over a cigarette shortly afterwards, but no job leads there.

Then my ex-boss from DDB PR showed up.

I wasn't completely taken by surprise because I'd seen her name on the guest list, but for as long as I'd known her she'd been the patron saint of tardiness - perpetually late for meetings and appointments, disorganised, incapable of delegating, and unable to focus on the big picture. My antithesis, and someone for whom I found it very difficult to work. Of course, she had her pet freelancer with her too - an obnoxious, loud, manipulative and venomous creature whose penetrating, grating laugh could've been used on the Kurds by Saddam Hussein. The 'little and large' of bad PR if you will. I wasn't surprised to see them together either - because the freelancer had the boss so wrapped around her little finger that it was rare for her to let the boss out of her sight. Indeed, we'd gone head-to-head a couple of times while I'd been working there, after the freelancer had tried to commandeer my account staff in the final run-up to a big client event of mine. That probably didn't do me any favours because, after that point, I noticed that I could never seem to get alone face-time with the boss without the freelancer inviting herself in on the conversation.

I'm not known for being reserved, but I managed to resist the temptation to deliver a cutting put-down, and instead avoided the pair of them like the plague for the whole evening. There were too many witnesses. Too much chance that my reputation would suffer as much as, if not more than theirs. Besides, I already know that everyone and anyone who's worked there has nothing good to say about the place, other than the fact that they don't have to work there any more.

Later, in the middle of a conversation with another ex-DDB-er I clocked the solomag founder in my peripheral vision, waving frantically. I felt rude to leave the conversation I was already in, but she seemed pretty insistent so I made my apologies and trotted over.

And hey presto, that's how it happened. I met the editor of a new men's magazine launching in the fall, who were looking for a writer. It was the first vaguely good news I've heard in a very, very long time, and I'm not exactly poker-faced so I was pretty much a picture of glee from head to foot. I think it telled, they could sense my excitement. A little wine took over the vocal filter and I allowed a little me-ness to creep out. "You're exactly the kind of writer we've been looking for. Give me your contact details and I'll call you tomorrow," she said. Sarcasm turned out to be a selling point rather than a detriment, and confirmed all my suspicions about being on the other side of the fence to PR.

Suddenly, honesty and integrity were more important than tact and diplomacy. Creativity and questioning the status quo were more important than kissing arse and towing the party line. Answering back seemed more likely to earn me a promotion than a formal written warning. Just to cap it all, she mentioned that the team on the magazine were looking for someone to help them with PR. "Oh, I've done PR for over ten years," I replied. Her eyes lit up. I could have snogged her face off.

I have to try to calm down before I speak to her tomorrow. She might only have a few hours for me. The job might not start until October. I really don't know all the details yet. That said, it shows promise. And talking of promises, I promise to tell you more as soon as I know more.

Now I'm off to smoke a butt, drink my milk, and have the first decent night's sleep in months.

The second quarter

3pm. Managed to get out of bed and make a coffee but there's nobody here to award me my medal.

I was actually woken up at 1pm by a phone call from the TD Bank. Despite being separated for eight months now, my ex-wife still hasn't started the paperwork on our finances, so the line of credit we started to pay for the car we couldn't really afford is still in my name. Ergo, every time there's a problem with it, they call me - FUBAR. I get to worry about it, but can't actually do anything about it because it's up to her to make the changes. It's my credit rating on the line too. But then she never did really prioritise us when it came to things like that, even if it was a significant worry for me.

Anyway, it struck me that tonight might be a good networking opportunity, which means I really do need to get my game face on. Cowering in the corner won't be an option. I'd better go cook and eat something or I'll be wasted after the first glass of champagne.

Hungover, drawn out, and one quarter conscious

I woke up this morning, circa 6.30am, hungover and with the thought, "Not good enough for a coffee shop," ringing around my head. So, I went downstairs, grabbed the orange juice carton from the fridge, and took it back to bed.

Take #2. 10.30am. Managed to haul my arse as far as the porch for a cigarette. I should probably rename the blog, "Postcards from the Porch" given that I seem to spend most of my time there these days. Right now, I see myself as Tom Hanks in "Castaway". I don't own a volleyball though, so I will have to find some other inanimate object to converse with.

The house is dim and cold, and outside isn't much better, with a slow but persistent rain thunking onto the lids of the recycling bin through one window, and amplifying the sound of the passing cars through the other. There are signs of another night of angry depression everywhere: an almost-drained cocktail glass on the porch chair, presiding over a small sea of cigarette butts like a queen over pawns on a chessboard; a plate of toast crumbs on my desk; the vodka bottle, Martini Rosso bottle, and disassembled cocktail shaker strewn about the kitchen counters. That actually makes me smile, believe it or not - being a drunk on vodka martinis rather than the more stereotypical paint thinner or lighter fluid ensconced in a brown paper bag. I must be a high-maintenance lush. Good for me. At least I'm doing it in style. Shit, that reminds me. I did my grocery expedition yesterday, spent over $100, and marched all the way back home with a stuffed rucksack and 'green' bag in each hand...and forgot to buy the maraschino cherries for my martinis.

It would seem, however, that I managed to choke them down without cherries anyway.

There must have been some anxiety at some point last night too. I have the familiar 'car crash' feeling this morning - sore shoulders and gums, stiff neck and jawbone. That means I probably should have had my gumshield in whilst in bed last night but that's the trouble with GAD, it's just so bloody rude. One never gets advance warning. My GAD is like the unwanted party gatecrasher...the guest who outstays their welcome...the poo that won't flush.

Regretfully I can't go back to bed for the rest of the day, even though that's what I'd love to do. For starters, today is a 'weights' day (as opposed to a MTBing day). Sooner or later I will have to venture as far as the garage, through the miserable weather and lime green sycamore seed mush that covers the driveway. It gets worse though, much worse. This evening is the launch party of my friend's new website, to which I'm invited because I'm a writer for it. Unpaid, of course. To be paid to do what I like to do for free at home wouldn't fit the fate to which I'm destined, apparently. This means King West, high-visibility, on-form, drinks and nibbles, and that British charm people here seem to warm to so much. Oh yeah, and the people. Lots of them. Stuffed in a room somewhere. I will have to choose one of my best masks if I'm to survive the night, although I have to get out the door first. That's the other reason why bad weather sucks - it means I can't wear sunglasses. Getting sun in my eyes doesn't really bother me, but making accidental eye contact with strangers does. I hate to be looked at when I'm feeling like this. It's an auto-trigger, and has me obsessively checking my flies to make sure they're not undone, my nose for errant bogies, or my face for a ripe yellow zit that I somehow missed before leaving the house. The kind that people can't help but have their eyes drawn to even when they're talking to you. Pulsating with every heartbeat.

I'm going back to bed. I'm not ready for this day yet.

Double whammy

Well, on the upside I managed to get out of the house and get a ride in. Also, I've been able to grocery shop today for the first time in a few weeks because my parents bailed me out and - for the time being - I'm no longer on the brink of bankruptcy. I'm still too stunned to know what to say about that really. Thanks partially to this blog I was able to be upfront with them about my financial situation, and I'd hoped for enough cash to cover the rent for a month or two. When we got to the bank though, my folks cleared the whole balance - about $22,000 of it.

I'm grateful, obviously. I'm also fighting not to beat myself up about incurring a debt like that in the first place. After all, for a few months I couldn't face leaving the house or picking up the phone, let alone work. I'm also slightly emasculated, and partially relieved, although the news today that I didn't even get the job in a f**king coffee shop that I went for wasn't well-received. Neither was another SMS spat with the woman who - on paper at least - could be my perfect match. With her and the job front I'm fresh out of ideas, and pretty much out of willpower. So, I'm into my first martini of the day. I figured it was after five o'clock and justified it to myself that way, given that I've been up since around 6am.

I treated myself at Coffee Time en route to the grocery store, partially because I was hungry and partially because I just needed a moment to get myself together. I had to repeat my order three times to the woman behind the counter who viewed me as an interruption to the conversation she was having. If only I too had realised one has to exude an aura of utter fucking ignorance in order to work in food retail, maybe I'd have got the job. Once again, life decides to shit on me from great height.

Patronage games

There's a scene in Patriot Games where Jack Ryan (Harrison Ford) and Admiral James Greer (James Earl Jones) are in a CIA briefing, poring over satellite photos of a particular desert campsite and discussing whether or not to blow it off the surface of the planet. I wonder what Mountain Equipment Co-op would have to say about that?

Anyway, Ryan is reluctant to approve the action to send the SAS in because he can't be 100% sure it's the site that has the particular baddies in it that the CIA is going after. Greer asks him, "Well, Jack, can you think of anything in life that is one hundred per cent certain?"

"My daughter's love," replies Ryan earnestly.

'Twas this scene - amongst many other things - on my mind as I sat down for dinner with my parents last night. For me, it's similar to sitting down with the group therapy posse on a Thursday afternoon. With group, everybody understands the demons. We're all there to talk, understand, and interact in a societal microcosm in order to 'practice' for life in the real world with 'normal' people (actually, being normal is something we all aspire to and has become a running joke for us). In addition there's often a lot of getting things off one's chest too. No time ever needs to be wasted in justifying feelings or behaviours because, more often than not, one can describe the most incredulous situations or symptoms and not have to worry about getting that look. You know the one. The look that, when received, makes you wonder whether an eppeleptic ninja crept into your bedroom while you were asleep and drew all over your face with yellow flourescent highlighter pen...and somehow you managed to miss it before leaving the house that day. It's the look often accompanied by the familiar rotating finger-point to the temple and a brief crossing of the eyes.

It's not necessarily that my parents can fully understand what it's like to be me. After all, who could, without being able to get inside my mind? I can tell you what it's like, do my best to explain, use metaphors, but - without meaning to sound pompous - you'll never know dread like I do. However, I could be nuttier than my Grandma's date & walnut cake and my folks wouldn't mind. They'd love me just the same.

It's not that other people don't. But, like in group, it's nice to know I can say pretty much whatever I want and not have to worry about being judged. And I do worry about that - about what people will think when they read the stuff on here. That said, as I mentioned to my Mum yesterday, the trouble with blogging is that it brings people in so close that, as I said to her, "You're riding the rollercoaster with me". You get to see every bump in the road, every up and down in my moods, and it's the 'down' more often than an 'up' because the meds I'm on tend to dull the senses and prevent things like ecstacy or euphoria. There is also the issue that when I'm 'talking' on here, it's impossible for the reader to know whether it's actually me they're hearing from, or one or more of my disorders.

With that in mind I'm going to make two additions to the blog. The first is something I was considering anyway, and is something I do in life and at work every day. When embarking on a project, whatever it is, it's important to know what success looks like. How will it be apparent that all objectives have been achieved? More specifically, how will I know whether I'm getting better or not?

During diagnosis, my first therapist took me through a few questionnaires designed to identify emotional disorders. Simple stuff really - a list of 20 or so questions with a 1-5 ranking. For example, one question/statement might be, "I don't enjoy pastimes as much as I used to," with five possible options ranging from "frequently feel like this" at one extreme and "rarely feel like this" at the other end of the scale (for clinical depression). There are similar ones for GAD. I'm not yet sure of the frequency - probably once per week - but I'm going to 'assess' myself with the same questionnaires each time and then use the scores to figure out whether the trend is a positive one or a negative one. It gives me an excuse to stimulate my nerd gland and construct a few line graphs in MS Excel. All I need to do is figure out how best to portray that information on here.

The other thing I'm going to start doing is reading back though my past blog entries to identify where and when particular cognitive disorders have been at work. The trouble with cognitive disorders is that, at the time, it's rarely possible to tell when you're having them i.e. being able to differentiate between a rational fear or thought and an irrational one.

Anyway, the trails are beckoning, and Thursday is therapy day so I gotta get a move on.

Caught with my pants down

So, Victoria Day. Something to do with Queen Victoria (gawd bless 'er) means that Canadians get a long weekend this weekend.

As you can probably tell, my swotting in preparation for Canadian citizenship has yet to begin. I can't name all the provinces either, except to say that I'm in Ontario, BC is on the West Coast, and the others are somewhere in-between.

Anyway, a long weekend is apparently a cause for jubilation. Fireworks displays were launched all over the country this evening in celebration of something or other. I'd been distracted by bike maintenance earlier in the evening and ended up racing down to The Beaches, my nearest fireworks display, thinking I was late. As it was, I got there an hour early so I parked myself on a bench and people-watched while sucking down a Marlboro red. The last time I remember smoking one of those was while I was writing my dissertation in Middlesbrough in 1997.

Hundreds, maybe thousands of people slowly but consistently gathered as dusk fell, heading Westwards along the boardwalk that runs the length of The Beaches as far as a snooty yacht club and then downtown. The fireworks were OK, although I was utterly under-dressed in that all my photos came out blurred because my hands were shaking in the cold of a cloudless Spring night.

I became transfixed on a family close to me. Mum, Dad, and a little girl who - I'd guess - was about four or five years old. The 'rents struggled to light sparklers in the chill wind, but were rewarded immediately by the look of sheer glee on the little girl's face as she ran amok in circles, waving the sparkler frantically. It reminded me of the dialogue between the two leading male protagonists in "Knocked Up" when they talk about kids loving bubbles. As she bounced around in utter happiness though, a feeling started to rise from my stomach that - when it got to my head - threatened to have me blubbing like a girl in front of everyone at the Southern most tip of Balsam Avenue. Thankfully I was sat on my own and no-one could see me, but I found myself full of butterflies, regret, and disillusion for no apparent reason.

I distracted myself by moving a few steps down to the boardwalk, but the feelings weren't going away. I barely noticed the fireworks in the end. In retrospect I guess it's like one of my acquaintances said in a group therapy session when, amidst tears, I wailed out loud, "I should be married with kids by now". He told me I put too much pressure on myself, and everyone else nodded in agreement. But, had mine and Nicole's marriage not been doomed then we'd be parents by now, perhaps with #2 on the way. We were 'trying' just before things got really bad.

I didn't begrudge the family I'd seen. I wish them all the luck and happiness in the world. The same goes for my ex. But I felt very, very alone. Looking around, I realised that nobody else was. There were couples, groups of teenagers, and families. Some of the kids must've lived nearby because it was obvious they'd thrown their winter coat on over their pyjamas. Some even were wearing flip flops, which seemed pretty ridiculous given how cold it was...but nobody was actually alone. Even those who appeared alone were talking to a friend, a lover, or a relative on their cell phone. I concluded that I'd missed the point that watching fireworks displays was a 'family' thing, and was reminded of the times my parents and I would hike from Wisden Road down to Fairlands Valley in my hometown to watch the fireworks for Guy Fawkes Night in the late 1970s.

Maybe it was the dark. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was because I was tired from an epic ride in the Don Valley with Ian earlier in the day. I doubt it though.

I just got caught out.

Before the echoes of the last "oohs" and "ahhs" had faded I was back on the bike. I barely noticed the incline of Beech Avenue which, despite being a more palatable climb than Glen Manor Drive (think Pyrenean switchbacks) and the other parallel streets running North from The Beaches up to Kingston Avenue, is not an insignificant hill. In fact it's not unusual for me to find myself crawling up it on my way back from a ride on Leslie Spit, gasping for air and hoping there's not some ambitious kid on a bmx behind me, waiting to trounce me as I force my lungs back into my mouth. My mind was busy though.

The brisk air made my eyes water, and I was grateful for that and the anonymity that darkness offered. I raced home and dived into a Manhattan (shaken, not stirred).

In conclusion, I'm reminded of a week I skipped out of my shrink's office, sometime this year in fact. I was feeling so positive that week that I remember saying to her, "Y'know, I think I can see a time when I can start to come off my meds." She replied something tactful and non-committal, and recollecting that memory this evening made me feel all the more foolish even after I'd got home.

Mental illness works in mysterious ways and, like the depression that followed the ecstasy, I felt I'd been lured into a sense of security only to have my legs swept away from beneath me. At a bloody fireworks display f'chrissakes.

Oh well...tomorrow is another day...

Baby steps

One of my famed symptoms is the tendency to omit the positives of any given situation and notice only the negatives. Indeed, I've been accused of being negative, paranoid, Eyore, and similar things. So, I thought I'd relish a few small victories by telling y'all about the things I have done to try to fight my way back to the dizzy heights of normality.

The "recovery plan" I've alluded to in the past is based on extensive research of the disorders I have, and - at its most basic level - is split into things I should make the effort to do and things I should avoid at all costs. The avoidance is easier, for example steering clear of any other sweatshop agencies in Toronto, be they PR, branding, or something else. It's true to say that I have been somewhat unfortunate in the roles I've picked in that two of three since moving to Canada have comprised two of the worst bosses I've ever worked for in my life. As ever, one wonders whether "it's just me", but in the case of DDB PR there was a long list of people who were maltreated, criticised openly, thrown to the wolves, or just worked literally to the point of exhaustion. Talking to these people has helped me put that 'experience' into perspective. Similarly, even after departing Interbrand it was a gigantic relief to hear that (a) my boss had been fired for utter ineptitude, and (b) that someone there had spread a rumour I'd slept with a colleague whilst married, in order to undermine my integrity. I just wish I'd known these things either before accepting the job, or before I was set up and fired. I could have kicked up a major stink and - more importantly - had the ammunition to defend myself a lot better than I did.

The woman who stitched me up is still there. She has my job and my job title now, even though she doesn't deserve it and doesn't have the requisite skills to do it. I still dream of catching her unawares with a trusty, silenced Glock 21SF. One in the head and two or three grouped in the chest would give me an indescribably ecstatic sense of accomplishment, relief, and justice. Alas, the small print is that it's illegal, and I don't believe in karma so it'll just have to go onto the ever-growing list of things in life that just aren't fucking fair.

Anyway, once the 'do this, don't do that' part of the plan is complete then the rest is based around enforcing some kind of routine I can stick to that supports everything else. For example, most sources of information suggest that daily exercise is essential for mental well-being. Thus I do alternate days of weightlifting and mountainbiking. The former also helps in the self-worth equation because having a better body gives me more confidence...especially when it comes to swimming, cottage weekenders, or any other situation where I might have to take my shirt off. The routine comes in when you consider things more in depth. For example, in order to mountainbike every other day I need a bike, and the necessary clothing. Thus the bike needs to be cleaned and maintained at least one day in advance, and if I want to ride on a Thursday then I need to ensure one pair of shorts, one pair of socks, and one top are all laundered by Wednesday.

And so it goes for every aspect of the ideal recovery routine. Eating four, five, or six times a day instead of three times, which increases my metabolic rate, burns fat, prevents the mid-afternoon dip (ever felt sleepy in your Dilbert cubicle after lunch? Then you know what I'm talking about) means that I need to know what meals I'm preparing in advance. If I'm to prepare those meals, then I need ingredients, which means grocery shopping for specific items. And so on and so forth. People seem bemused when I say the recovery plan can get a little complicated, but when you break every waking minute down like this and trace every facilitating action then you can end up with quite a long list.

So what baby steps have been taken thus far?

My diet is now based on pages ripped from Men's Health magazine. All recipes are high-protein, low carb, leading to a more muscular me over the medium term. As mentioned, this boosts confidence, avoids peaks and troughs in my blood sugar levels, and with the requisite grocery shopping beforehand means I'm not tempted to eat sugary snacks because I have plenty of alternatives in the house. Fruit, nuts, and sultanas/raisins to name but three. In addition to the basic meals I have scoured the magazine and the web to identify foodstuffs that have a positive impact on mental agility. I can't remember what all the foodstuffs are offhand, but the objective is to ensure that the pickled walnut I call a brain is firing on all cylinders. In some cases it's a specific herb or spice, which leads to me seeking recipes that use said ingredient, or chucking it in with a bunch of other things to make a salad of sorts.

Whenever I grocery shop, I choose three of the recipes beforehand and list out the ingredients to buy. The point is to negate any possible excuse I might think of not to cook and eat properly. This has proven essential when battling depression. Of course, this kind of preparation and planning also ensures I don't have to resort to a slice of pizza from the delivery place at the end of the road. So, in addition to all the above, I'm preserving a great deal of cash and avoiding a great deal of saturated fats.

Along the same lines I have purposefully eliminated a lot of refined sugar from my diet. I don't eat sweets any more, nor cakes, muffins, or other sweet junk food. I no longer take sugar in either tea or coffee, but use 2% milk (that's semi-skimmed in English) instead of skimmed milk because it has more of the inherent nutrients in it. Whole fat milk isn't actually fattening, although it gets a bad rap for some reason, and skimmed milk doesn't even look or taste like milk so that was a relatively easy change to make. I don't drink pop any more because it's absolutely swimming in sugar. Even the diet ginger ale I used to use as a mixer with my rye is steeped in sugar. Now, even tonic water tastes sweet to me. Instead, I drink a lot more milk, and a lot more water. I have to say I had trouble with water because I just didn't like to drink it on its own. But, I couldn't use sachets of flavour or cordial because - again - they're both full of sugar and other crap. So now I just squeeze lime juice into the water and - hey presto - for some reason I find it a whole lot more palatable and can down pints of the stuff.

I've started reading things again. It's a handy way to wind-down at night, and helps combat the insomnia. I zipped through Billy Connolly's biography (which was fascinating, by the way) and finished Lance Armstrong's autobiography on the subway last night. I'm not sure what's next but I'll probably just read all the books I own first, and then see if there's a library somewhere within range. Alas, the cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT) I was doing at night-time had to be scrapped. I can see the principle in recording anxious thoughts, noting the trigger, and thinking what alternative explanations there might be to someone's behaviour or chosen words than the fact that I'm an idiot that everyone loathes. However, the unfortunate thing with CBT is that two of my strongest recurring fears actually came true - "Nicole will divorce me" and "I will get fired from my job". The idea behind CBT is that it retrains your mind to rationalise situations in a more pragmatic and objective way. Unfortunately, if your worst cognitive distortions actually come true then it kinda pulls the rug out from under your feet. This is why I was such a bundle of nerves at the time Nicole gave up on me - because suddenly I could no longer tell what was 'real' and what was distortion. If those two fears came true, then would all the others too in time? It was pretty terrifying stuff, and I still remember being sat on the balcony, sobbing my heart out, clutching my knees when Nicole returned from work one afternoon because of it.

As said, physical exercise is a no-brainer. Weights-wise I shredded a year's worth of Men's Health magazines and constructed my own, bespoke dumbbell-only workout. This means I can get the same results without having to afford a gym membership somewhere. Conveniently, Todd bought a Swiss Ball and a pair of five and 12-pounders in preparation for his surfing vacation, so I nipped out and bought a pair of 15s so I have enough range for all sorts of exercises and won't need to buy any more for quite some time. I also MacGyver'd a chin-up bar in the garage, though it might need some more work. It's currently about ten feet off the ground and requires a fairly accurate leap just to get to it. It's a cool exercise though - working large chunks of one's back, arms, and shoulders. I have to say I suspect it works my glutes too, 'cos I'm straining so hard to do one chin-up that I could probably crack a walnut if I clenched it between my arse cheeks. I think my current personal best is three in a row (chin-ups, not walnuts), though I'd probably manage more if I wasn't wasting so much effort bulging my eyes like poached eggs, and making the same noise water does as it sinks down the plughole in the bathtub.

The other half of the physical exercise aspect to the recovery plan is mountainbiking. It's one of the few things I still spend money on. I can't afford a bike maintenance stand so I MacGyver'd one by slinging an unused chain over the rafters and attaching an unused toestrap to each end. Thankfully the weather is now warm enough to use a hosepipe, which makes cleaning the bike 60-70% faster, and means I can spend more time checking it over for broken spokes or other wear and tear. The MTBing itself is also a good choice. Versus running, I have a much greater range and thus more choice of places to exercise. Both getting covered head-to-toe in mud and the act of fixing things and replacing broken or worn parts makes me come over all rugged and manly (sad but true). Plus, the inherent aerobicism compliments the weight training, sheds fat, burns calories, and boosts my confidence and self-worth through battling either the elements or obstacles that, frankly, scare the piss out of me.

As a result of all the exercise I have reduced my spare tyre to a spare inner tube, and am now starting to see definition in my shoulders, chest, and abs. The quest for the six-pack is a long and tiresome one though. It's like waiting for xmas when you're a kid. That said, it must be on its way because a couple of pairs of trousers now hang off me unless strapped on with a belt, on which I'm using a hole I haven't used in a decade.

Talking of which, I'd better go eat something or today's ride will be short-lived.

Loyalty is its own reward

So aside from a peculiar mountainbike crash, last weekend was an excellent one for a budding loyalist like me.

I was riding next to a rusty wire fence that had been allowed to deteriorate, with bits of the wire hanging out over the trail (unbeknownst to me). As I rode by, a pointy bit of wire hooked me in the crease of my left elbow, and pulled me backwards off the bike...which continued for a yard or so and then toppled over. It gave me a nice gash across my arm where they say is the best place to slice y'self if you're intent on suicide. More annoyingly though, it tore a gigantic hole in a long-sleeved top from MEC I only bought in March. Eff.

Anyway, Friday I helped throw undercoat on the walls of Terri's condo, and Saturday I helped Andrew & Kathy move house. This is perfect loyalist stuff, and dovetails nicely with the research I've done about self-worth.

One's sense of self-worth is at the core of an anxiety disorder. A great many decisions in my mind are influenced by whether or not I perceive myself to be 'worthy'. For example, let's say someone compliments me on, I don't know, the clothes I'm wearing on a night out. A normal person would accept the compliment with a smile, relish the boost to their ego, and probably say "thank you". With me it depends on how I'm feeling at that particular moment in time. Thus, on occasion, I've been paid a compliment, but, my brain thinks something along the lines of, "Wow, they were really clutching at straws when they said that - my clothes are the only thing they could think of to compliment. They're just being charitable, and there must be something else about my appearance that's really bad. They're just trying to divert attention from it."

I feel for my ex-wife when I talk about things like this, because living with and having to 'handle' someone with GAD is like walking a tightrope. Even the most positive of affirmations can sometimes be received in a negative way. This is one of the reasons why the disorder is so difficult to understand for friends and relatives, and why it's so difficult to get better. Even when people are trying to help, and doing or saying things that'd cheer up a regular Joe, in the case of someone with GAD it might actually be making them worse. It all depends on the level of self-esteem at that specific moment in time.

Anyway, smoking marijuana is a great way to initiate lateral thinking. In one of my smoked-up brainstorm-of-one sessions I sat down and tried to figure out what makes me feel 'worthy', like I actually deserve the nice things that happen to me, and have a genuine right to be upset or angry about the other things.

A lot of it is financial. The reason why I've written (and had cognitive distortion-ridden spats at HRM people and the like) about money so much is because if I can't fend for myself, it strikes right at the heart of my self-worth. Not only can I not pay my way (and therefore cannot go out for dinner, drinks, or anything else), I cannot host people at my place, cannot be philanthropic which is something I often long to do, and can't be a - financial - caregiver for friends and/or family when they might need it.

In love, it's very similar. I remember that one of the conversations I had with my Mum when I first opened up to my folks about my disorders was about my Grandad (my Mum's Dad). He had agoraphobia, and never left the house without a bottle of beta-blockers he could turn to if confronted with an anxiety attack far from home. At certain points in his life the disorder became debilitating, and would dictate to him when and where he could go. For example, he never left the UK in his life. Whenever he went on vacation, he went to the same place. I don't mean the same Mediterranean resort, I mean the same seaside town. Not just the town, but the same hotel. And, not just the same hotel, but the same ROOM in the hotel. The route to get there was probably similar each time, if not exactly the same.

One one occasion my grandparents started driving there, got halfway, and my Grandad decided he just couldn't do it. They turned around and came home. That's what I mean by debilitating, and it's a similar issue to that which keeps me housebound and afraid to answer the phone when my GAD has been really bad.

The point about my Grandad, other than the fact that mental disorders aren't strictly hereditary but one can have a genetic predisposition to certain ones, is that his own anxiety increased and decreased according to what was going on in his life. When my Mum left home the first time, it got worse. When I was born, it got better.

Thus when it comes to me, I have had to learn to be extraordinarily careful about who I get into relationships with. As a partner I have to also be a soulmate and a lover. If that woman doesn't need me as much as I need to be needed, then the relationship will inevitably fail unless my self-worth is supplemented in another area. I'm two weeks from 38 years old and - I hope - still have time to be a father one day. Again, this is a key source of self-worth for me - being not only everything I am to my wife/partner, but also a role model, a caregiver, and - on occasion - even a teacher to my child or children.

When it comes to friends, I strive to be trusted and reliable. The guy you can call at 3am and say "I've broken down on the 401, I don't have anyone else I can call. Can you come and get me?" and know I'll be there ASAP. Which, of course, would be a f**king long time given that I lost the car in the divorce and would have to ride my mountainbike down the 401 without getting busted. You get the point though.

I strive to be the person that other people can talk to. The one people come to for advice. And it's all because the GAD makes me desperate to be trusted, to belong to something bigger than myself. Happy to be odd, different, or eccentric so long as I am respected by those who know me. You'll probably start to see what a disproportionately positive effect the replies to my Facebook e-mail had on me now, and why.

So shifting a friend's entire world into a new home, or painting it once they're there are high up on the list of things that make me feel good about myself. Strange isn't it? For most people it's a long soak in the tub or retail therapy. Not me, they don't do anything for me. This was why my ex-wife was so surprised when I was happy to give up so much joint stuff when we separated our possessions. The car, the house, the 12+ hours of special edition Lord of the Rings DVDs. Stuff doesn't mean anything to me. In fact, the very second she asked for the divorce my wedding ring immediately became scrap metal in my eyes, no longer symbolic of anything other than a failed marriage.

Point is, let me know if you're doing home improvements (that's "DIY" in the UK, though I won't be flying out just to help you paint the hallway). Let me know if you need help. Let me know if you need someone to do something where menial labour and a few brain cells can fix it.

Because chances are, it's therapy for me.

Wow

I have about four blog entries backed up in my mind. However, I feel the need to put all those on hold just to comment on the Facebook e-mail I sent out about this blog.

The response was staggering. Even almost a week later I'm still reeling from surprise, although that is slowly turning into a strong sense of positive humility. I'm enormously flattered, blown away, and feeling a great deal more connected to people, even those I can't see on a daily basis because they're in a different part of town, or the planet we all call home.

It reminds me of the time I went through a really rough patch last year, and missed two weeks' worth of group therapy in a row. I couldn't even muster the courage to call the facilitating doctors to let them know I was OK. I was in hot water when I eventually returned - people were really angry 'cos they didn't know whether I was just housebound or pushing up daisies somewhere. That came as a shock, because when one is in the depths of depression, the most common thought is, "I may as well just slip away quietly. Nobody would care if I did, or even notice for that matter..."

I'm not going to provide sufficient clues to enable matching names of my friends and family with the things they've said. However, amongst other things...

...I am aware that I am not alone. I've been told of friends and spouses with depression and other disorders, and that even in the time I've known certain people they've been quietly coping with emotional hardship without me even knowing.

...a former colleague and ex-journalist (believe me, that doesn't really narrow it down much) told me that he used to witness me, "Soak up pressure like a sponge..." I'm not sure how accurate that is at this particular moment in time but, again, it puts things into perspective. I feel constitutionally weak right now, feeble even. But, that may just be a relative assessment of my own ability rather than a comparison between me and the average Joe. Again, useful stuff to know.

...a friend described their own consideration of, and attempt at suicide. I was totally gob-smacked, because to look at and know this person would give you no indication whatsoever they had been to this dark place. I tend to listen avidly to people like this in the same way that I do in group. Not to discriminate, but it's very difficult to explain what is going through one's head and how you're feeling when you have depression or anxiety. When you speak to someone you know has it or has had it, like the people in my group therapy posse, then you know there is no need to explain or try to explain. One 'knowing' look says it all.

...a gay friend called me to congratulate me on 'coming out' about my illnesses. I take this as a massive compliment from someone who has, I suspect, had to deal with a greater fear and more widespread stigma than I. Society wasn't always as diverse at it is now, and Toronto is perhaps one of the most lenient and welcoming communities on the planet, with the possible exception of California - San Francisco, say. I don't perceive my own 'coming out' as anywhere near the same league, so this was a stunning compliment.

Please be patient with me folks, it'll take me a while to reply to everyone...

Change of address

Based on counsel with a few friends (thanks Ian and Sa'ad in particular) I've opted to split my mentalism stuff away from the more formal writing.

I'm not sure whether it's a cognitive distortion or not, but it's definitely been a concern of mine that were any potential employer to check out my blog in order to assess my writing ability, they'd have the opportunity to read everything else. I feel a little uncomfortable with the fact that my aim with THIS blog is to help explode a few myths about mental illness, help educate people, and help make such disorders more socially 'acceptable'. It doesn't feel altruistic to then purposefully make my blogging anonymous.

Alas, as I learned in the inter- and intra-personal behavioural communications parts of my degree, there are way too many barriers to communication and misinterpretations possible to run that risk. Expectancy theory, Halo/Horns Effect, and good old fashioned bigotry and discrimination, amongst others. We wouldn't be human without them.

Apologies to anyone who'd signed up to follow the blog and will now need to do so again.

Breeding like rabbits

So I've been chatting with a few friends about this now.

I have a concern that all my prior writing samples are clumped together on the same blogsite as all my comment and rants, as well as my GAD and CD-related stuff.

I would love to believe that a potential employer would be empathetic and impressed by my honesty when reviewing the site but it just ain't so. I'm more likely to be perceived as a total nutjob and not get a call back.

So, I'm going to split things up and keep the illness stuff related from everything else. If you're currently following this site then a new address might be appearing soon, but I'll post it here so you can redirect and re-subscribe.

More details coming soon.

Shhhh...

...it's Top Secret.

Ian, Andrew and I are working on a triple CD compilation for a friend of ours. Chances of him reading this blog are about one per cent so I feel comfortable telling you.

It's late and I should be off to bed, but here's the playlist I picked for my part of the album. Once Ian's exec produced it, it'll be available from the Number 11 Records podcast site - I'll link to it from here.

1. Groove Armada: "Madder" from "Love Box" special edition, 2002
2. Bjork: "There's More To Life Than This" (recorded live in the Milk Bar toilets, London) from "Debut", 1993
3. BT: "Embracing the Sunshine" from "IMA", 1995
4. Curtis Mayfield: "Pusherman" from "Superfly", 1972
5. Bob Dylan: "Rainy Day Women #12 & 35" from "Blonde On Blonde Vol. 1", 1967
6. Genesis: "The Fountain of Salmacis" from "Nursery Cryme", 1971
7. Lazonby: "Sacred Cycles" (original mix), 1992
8. The Crusaders: "Keep That Same Old Feeling" from "Those Southern Nights", 1976
9. Marshall Jefferson vs. Noosa Heads: "Mushrooms", 1996
10. Loose Joints: "Is It All Over My Face" (female vocal), 1980
11. Simon & Garfunkel: "The 59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin' Groovy)" from "Simon & Garfunkel live in Central Park", 1981
12. Midi Brotherhood: "The Superself" (origin unknown) mid c1990s
13. Gustav Holst: "Uranus, The Magician" from "The Planets Suite", 1916
14. Stevie Wonder: "Higher Ground" from "Innervisions", 1973
15. Average White Band: "Stop the Rain" from "Feel No Fret", 1979
16. Van Morrison: "Warm Love" from "Hard Nose the Highway, 1973
17. The Bar-Kays: "Shine" from "Light of Life", 1978
18. Dom B Sensi: Those Norwegians" from "Kaminzky Park", 1997
19. Stereo MCs: "All Night Long" from "Connected", 1992
20. James Earl Jones: "When the Rainbow Ends" (bootleg recording, London, c2001)

"Braaaains...must...eat...brains..." (vampires, zombies, and howling at the moon...)

I'm trying desperately to correct the vampiric sleep cycle I seem to be stuck in at the moment.

However, despite hitting the sack as early as 9.45pm I just can't seem to sleep. I read somewhere that the worst thing one can do is just lay there in bed, staring at the ceiling, getting gradually more pissed off, so I've got up. I've had some 'nights' when I've still been awake as late as four or five o'clock in the morning, though for the last nights it's only been circa 2am. I guess I'm slowly getting there, and in this most recent bout of insomnia I have, at least, been able to take in some of the local wildlife.

I saw a skunk briefly for the first time in Canada the other night, though it moved so quickly the only real part of it I saw was the tail. Black and white stripes though? Gotta be a skunk. I also had the chance to see a couple of raccoons working the neighbourhood which was quite cool. I'm fascinated by the way they move.

So it was circa 3.30am and I was slumped on a chair on the porch smoking a cigarette and drinking a glass of milk when the two of them appeared in the gardens opposite. They move like soldiers or, more specifically, snipers. Both would move to cover under a bush or similar and disappear from view. Then one would sneak further down the road across the front gardens to find the next cover. Once safely ensconced, the second one moved up behind it, overtook the first one, and then sought the next cover. It reminded me of the way I used to move my SAS team around in "Conflict: Desert Storm". One has to admit it's fascinating, and quite cool, even if you're one of those people who's woken up on garbage day to find the contents of their green bin scattered across the front lawn.

Anyway, regardless of how chuffed I am to have seen my first raccoons in action, it's important to keep fighting the sleep cycle because of the ill effects the next day. Right now I'm blogging through bleary eyes, still in my pyjamas, and it's 12:04pm. "Well, that sounds like a nice lie-in," you might be thinking, but the trouble is that I have no control over it. Once I've slept through my alarm then it's a bit of a lottery as to when I will wake up. Sometimes it's as early as 10.30am. Other times it's been four or five o'clock in the afternoon. Every now and then I lose an entire day, waking up so late in the evening the next day that it's time to go to bed again. I've missed shrink appointments, group therapy, dentist appointments and various other things this way. Worse still, it's hugely de-motivating. If I'm already a little depressed, then my train of thought goes something like this:

"Uh...I'm awake...it's bright in my room, I wonder what time it is? Shit! Noon already? Fuck! I've wasted half the day already. I'm useless - totally disorganised and a complete slob with all the self discipline of one of those cute grandparents who keeps forgetting people's names and slipping whisky into their cups of tea. What's the point. I'm not going to achieve anything today now, it's too late. I may as well just go back to sleep."

It's called all-or-nothing thinking, and is a common symptom though I can't remember whether it's anxiety-related or depression-related. One tends to think of things in black or white but never grey. There are no shades, no variations, no compromise. Either I've succeeded, or I've utterly failed and am a complete waste of space. Even knowing it's a symptom doesn't help sometimes. It should do - I'm not stupid, and the whole reason for spending so much time familiarising myself with my disorders through extensive research was the hope that if I knew when I was 'doing it', I could stop and say, "No, that's not me, that's the disorder talking," and rethink things. Sometimes though it's just too strong, too overpowering. Don't forget it's often accompanied by a feeling of physical fatigue, of being barely strong enough to lift my feet to walk. There's been times in the past few weeks when I've felt like a zombie, walking around in a dazed, barely conscious state. I guess that's to be expected after a fitful sleep.

Anyway, after last week's Spanish Inquisition at group I wasn't much looking forward to yesterday. Just to cap it all, despite checking the clock on my mobile phone obsessively for the first two hours I was sat in the internet cafe near Yonge & Bloor, I still managed to miss the crucial time when I would need to leave and make it to group promptly. I suddenly realised I'd become completely absorbed in what I was doing, grabbed my phone, and...5.23pm.

Bollocks. Group starts at 5.30pm. Cue frantic scampering out of there and onto the subway. I'm not sure what time I did make it to the 17th floor of St. Michael's but thankfully it must have been soon enough for me to not take any flak. However, group turned out to be pretty darned rough anyway. I managed to cower in the corner for the first 45 minutes or so but the facilitators have an uncanny knack of spotting who's hiding something. It's probably easy with me, I don't have a poker face per se, and I'm not a very good liar so I rarely bother. I ended up going through everything I'd been feeling when writing the suicidal blog entries from a few days ago, and ended up crying like a wuss in front of everyone, which just kills me.

One very important thing came out of it all though.

Other group members were focussing on my need for work and the income it brings. It wasn't the first time I'd heard the suggestion that I should take whatever job I could get. Even my folks have said the same. However, as I explained, the potentially serious result of taking a job where every sentence is completed with the words, "Would you like fries with that?" is the effect on my self esteem. 2007 was bad enough, being part of the senior management team of the PR arm of a global advertising agency. On paper, the DDB PR job wasn't even a bad one, but after being consistently snubbed by the boss in favour of her favourite freelancer, having to fight against the advertising people on my account teams who insisted on giving our clients bad, ill-conceived, ignorant, PR counsel without even liaising with any of the PR pros on the team, and the various staff collapsing with exhaustion or stress inside the PR team it started to get me down.

We had serious, serious problems. The budgeting on accounts was so out of whack that account managers were having to rob one client in order to fund another. Some projects had gone so waaaay over budget that we were working for free. At the end of 2007 I calculated the staff turnover rate out of curiosity. It was over 90 per cent, and we were losing one member of staff - on average - every six weeks, along with all the client knowledge and media sector expertise they had because there was never, never a proper handover process. My wife at the time is a PR pro too, and used to stand stunned, agog, eyes wide and mouth open when I used to tell her about the things that went on behind closed doors there. Having junior staff come to me in private and in tears because they were so terrified to submit their timesheets and incur the spiteful, misguided wrath of the boss put me over the edge. Some of these people I'd played a role in bringing into DDB PR, and I felt more than partially responsible for their misery. I ceased being able to sleep at night, and could barely look myself in the mirror. In the mornings I'd wake up feeling cheerful, and then have an insipid, unstoppable dread creep over me that left a bitter taste in my mouth, along with the thought, "I have to go back in there again today." Sunday nights were miserable.

The way DDB PR was run at the time was in direct conflict to my ethics. Clients were deceived, staff were run into the ground like slaves, and the advertising team made everything worse by backing the client when the PR people were trying to explain why using an advertising copywriter to fill news releases full of meaningless bullshit would alienate the client's entire target media list, for good...every journalist on every publication would receive the pushing-the-envelope, squaring-the-circle, synergistic, soup-to-nuts drivel, think, "What is this shit?" and delete it. Then there was the long-term damage to the PR people on the account who would have their entire network of media contacts potentially turn against them for pushing such shit on them. And the boss of the PR team sat back and let it all happen.

Even though I've been safely out of DDB PR for a year now, the memories are so vivid they still haunt me. And that's what comes into my mind when I think of taking a job that comprises having my name on a badge on my left pec. That feeling of, "Oh no, not again, why do I have to do it again". With a menial job though, a great deal of the problem is shame. The stomach-churning fear that someone I know, an old boss, my ex-wife would happen to stroll into wherever I was working and see me.

Until yesterday, that is.

The penny that dropped was the realisation that such a job ought only to be a stepping stone. Strictly temporary. If I was lucky, I might be in and out within a month or two. Last night the realisation sunk in that all the time I'd considered and chosen to ignore such opportunities was because I was perceiving them as careers. I wasn't thinking about serving coffee in Tim Horton's, I was thinking about having to serve coffee in Tim Horton's for the rest of my miserable life.

It gives me hope, which is a rare thing indeed these days.

Can't think of anything witty

So I'm typing from a downtown internet cafe.

At this time of the week I'd normally be in with my shrink but apparently she's on vacation. Lucky her. She probably told me she'd be away, and I probably forgot. The result is I have around three-an-a-half hours to kill before group therapy.

This is a cafe I used to frequent when I was jobhunting some time ago. Slap bang in the centre of downtown makes it convenient to get anywhere else from here, although it's location at Isabella & Gloucester also makes me uneasy. It's perilously close to Yonge & Bloor, the site of the Xerox tower where I was forced out of one job (DDB PR) and set up to fail in another (Interbrand). Thus there is always the chance I might run into someone I used to work with, leading to the inevitably uncomfortable, "So what are you doing these days?" question that it shames me to answer.

Even worse, I might run into my old boss at DDB or the woman at Interbrand who deliberately gave me wrong directions for meetings, undermined my authority, tattled to the VP about me, hid files from me on the server, and finally got me fired by setting me up for a task I couldn't complete so she could run to the boss and 'grass me up' as soon as I was five minutes late on a deadline. This was the final straw that got me fired apparently...on All Fool's Day 2008.

Hysterical.

That was the $110,000 p.a. + benefits peak before the zero income trough I'm in now.

I should be feeling guilty. I just ran amok, buying not only a carton of milk from the nearby convenience store, but also a $4.99 sandwich. I've been trying to keep down such extravagances, knowing full well I can make a sandwich at home for next to nothing. It's not even that I feel like I'm treating myself.

I just don't see the point in trying anymore.

So much for Canada being a country reliant on immigrants

Well, I'm glad I didn't blog this morning. It would have been prematurely upbeat.

I was actually quite positive for the first five or so hours of the day. Yesterday I managed to bleed the last of the air from my front brake to get it working again, had a fairly decent ride, and even got free strawberry and rhubarb pie from the next door neighbour.

Last night I slept for more than a couple of hours for the first time in ages. This morning I was out of the house and on the trails before 7am. I even deliberately rode headlong down a 30-foot flight of stairs without maiming myself.

Then back to the grind. Checked workopolis.com, IABC.com, eluta.com, Craig's List, Now Toronto, Monster.ca, Media Jobs Canada, and LinkedIn for potential jobs I had the necessary experience for, stood a snowball in hell's chance of getting shortlisted for, and knew I'd be able to do without feeling ashamed or emasculated - thus avoiding the risk of worsening my depression.

Nothing.

The afternoon saw the usual e-mail chains from my softball team about who was giving who a lift when and where from, plus the normal jokes and jibes. That's when it hit me.

When Nicole asked me for a divorce one of the many things that crossed my mind was that it would be the end of my Canadian life metaphorically. Many of my friends were really her friends. I'd lose any family I had here, many friends, networks, social engagements and other things. However, I am now fast approaching the end of my Canadian life in actuality.

If I can't get a job then I have no income. My credit card debt now outweighs the value of my RRSP and all my worldly belongings combined. If I have no income then I have to declare bankruptcy. I'm not sure what happens when one has to do that, but if no work is in sight then I don't think it will be option to continue to bum around in Toronto accumulating debt. Even sheltered housing in Toronto is $300+ per month.

Thanks to this chain of events that began, I suppose, with my persecution/quasi-constructive dismissal at DDB PR last year, I may have to leave Canada for good (alas, the lawyers at DDB made me sign a contract not to sue the company, in exchange for a couple of grand in hush money...sorry...I meant to say redundancy money). Whilst I no longer have family here, I do have many good friends here and I like living in Toronto. Trouble is, Toronto doesn't seem to like me back.

I can't help but think that being single, talented, witty, socially and environmentally conscientious, hard-working, and ethical with an IQ of 155 must make me an abnormal immigrant, unfit for any shape or style of Canadian cookie-cutter.

I'm off to finish crying into my cigarette on the porch. Then a bath and bed. Maybe tomorrow will be better, but I doubt it.

"Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of withdrawal."

I've been on Effexor XR/venelafaxine for a long time now. Truth be told, I can't remember when I was first prescribed it, although I do recollect the long-winded, careful titration process. I began at only 37.5mg daily, so it took several months to get up to my current daily dosage of 225mg.

I was warned at the time that this was a seeeerious narcotic, that it needed to be taken at precisely the same time each day and in the correct dosage. Peculiarly, in order to avoid peaks of the drug in the bloodstream, in the accompanying instructions it also said to skip a dose if I was so much as a few hours late with it any day. I say peculiar because instinct tells me it would be worse to have less than prescribed in the bloodstream rather than more.

Then again I'm not a pharmacologist, or whatever kind of 'ist' it is that designs drugs.

So, for the last however-many-months it is, I'd say for 85% of the time I've dutifully taken my meds each day, probably within a three to four-hour window each 24 hours, at breakfast - one of the other caveats is that the drug must be taken with food, else it causes nausea and an upset stomach. The other 15% I've been slightly early, slightly late, or late enough to require skipping a dose until the next day.

Indeed, the first time I took it, I experienced an almost instantaneous hot flush, curiously in the face and - of all places - elbows, shoulders, and armpits. I wasn't hot, but my skin turned crimson and for ten minutes or so I felt sunburned. At the time my (now) ex-wife insisted I was having no reaction and that the flushing was either from a shower I'd had, or psychosomatic. However, when I returned to the pages of and pages of notes that accompanied my first prescription, sure enough, hot flushes were one of the many potential side effects. Besides, I've had other hot flushes since then, so I know it's a side effect. Ironically one time it happened in Shoppers Drug Mart while I was waiting to collect my prescription. Over a period of about 15 seconds I went consistently crimson from head to feet. It felt like I was on fire, and the guy in the lab-coat behind the counter looked at me agog. That was fun to deal with.

At the time I was relieved to know that whatever Effexor was doing, it was doing something. I couldn't gauge its effect, couldn't measure the difference, couldn't tell what impact it was having on me and my moods. In addition, having had a period during my 20s when I experimented with recreational drugs in the UK, Effexor was pretty damn disappointing by comparison. I was expecting a discernible effect within half an hour of my first dose. A sense of clarity, of purpose, of euphoria, of calm, at least of relief. But, I simply couldn't tell the difference. Apparently benzodioxolmethylpropanamine and dimethylamino-methoxyphenyl-ethylcyclohexanol are designed with different results in mind, no pun intended. In fact, the only time since then that I've been able to tell the difference was when I missed a dose: tension in the jawbone muscles; very mild although utterly uncontrollable convulsions, particularly in the shoulders and arms; yawning; and something that felt like pins and needles all over my body...but amplified.

Now let's fast forward a year or two to last week.

I took 225mg on the morning of Wednesday 29th April. I'd been a little up-and-down earlier in the week, though by early afternoon that day I was feeling pretty good. I'd scoffed my meds, lifted a few weights, completed a cursory bike ride afterwards in order to help burn off a few fat cells agitated by said weights, and was making skirt steak with caramelised onions and a bean mash (like mashed potato but with cannelloni beans or similar instead). One of the simplest rules for a higher protein and less calorific eating regime is to eat like a king at breakfast, a prince at lunch, and a pauper at suppertime.

It was then that I got the phone call from a friend regarding dinner plans that week. I was curious why she'd phoned.

"Hey - I'm seeing you and Terri tomorrow evening for dinner anyway aren't I?" I cheerfully mused as I stirred fresh rosemary and lemon juice into the beans.

"What do you mean tomorrow?" replied Tammy. "We're getting together tonight."

"Tonight?" I said, puzzled. "But I thought we were going over to Terri's on Thursday?"

There was a pause on the other end of the phone, before: "Today is Thursday Glyn."

This is the trouble with being out of work for so long. Every day is the same. There are no weekends or weekdays anymore. Time is smudged like spilt cigarette ash on a white tablecloth to the extent that I find myself having to sneak a glance at my computer screen every now and then to remind myself where in the week I am. And no, it isn't bliss. It isn't fun. It's no fucking holiday. I can't enjoy it at all when I know I need to be working. It's more like a millstone, a perpetual reminder that every moment I'm here, my debt is increasing.

The point is that I had to scramble out the door because I'd already missed my counselling appointment at 1.30pm that day, and was on the way to missing my group therapy appointment at 5.30pm. Especially so when you consider it's an hour's journey to group from where I now 'live'. I also had to pack in everything I'd wanted to take 24 hours doing in preparation for dinner at Terri's into an hour. Hence, I arrived 20 minutes late for group therapy, and then we all know what happened.

Every now and then I have a therapy session - group and/or individual - that really shakes me up. After Thursday's group last week I was literally reeling and had to sink a few beers at Terri's afterwards in order to calm myself. Then I went home and slept for a day, missing my Friday dose. By the time I next blogged, I'd been in withdrawal for over 24 hours.

This is what I've been reflecting on for the last day or so. Then I remembered that one of the other, more serious withdrawal-related side effects of straying from prescription protocol is violent mood swings. Sure enough, a few minutes of web research revealed that I was not the first to experience such effects. Moreover it was a relief to know that I could learn from other patients who, circa 2005, had attempted to come off Effexor XR 'cold turkey' and had accordingly experienced everything I'd experienced on Saturday.

It seems plausible to hypothesise, therefore, that the suicidal thoughts I had at the weekend weren't actually me per se, but a violent reaction to a dip in Effexor levels in my bloodstream. This is reassuring for two reasons. One, it means that the drug must be having some kind of beneficial effect, because not taking it causes such a noticeable, tangible reaction. This is significant also because it destroys one previous cognitive distortion I'd had about my prescription - that it might be a placebo. I now know that can't be true. Two, it means that I may not actually be as close to the edge as I felt at the weekend.

That's as far as I can get at the moment in terms of understanding and perception. Indeed, for the last seven or eight months I haven't really known who I am, I haven't known where I end and the drugs begin or vice versa. I've even feared that - were I to return to health - I might lose my sense of humour. It's very self-deprecating after all, and if my confidence were to improve then would I just stop being funny?

It feels like time to revisit my recovery plan.

Sometime in the Spring or Summer of 2008 I'd researched and written a plan that took into account everything I understood about the drugs I was taking, the disorders I was afflicted by, and the likely symptoms. It took into account time planning, priorities, nutrition, contingencies, therapy, and those things I could do in a day-to-day lifestyle that would dovetail with CBT et al, avoid triggers as I understood them, and 'automatically' improve my mental health so long as I stuck to it religiously.

Trouble is, I never really executed on it for two reasons. First, I believed the problems I was having were 'family' problems and it was therefore essential to me to have my wife fully briefed, cognisant, and supporting me in what I was trying to achieve. It was also essential to ensure that the plan could accommodate a full-time job, and would not fail the minute I started working again 'proper'.

Unfortunately, I suspect by that time my then wife had already made her mind up that she was going to divorce me. I couldn't get her buy-in. In fact, I couldn't even get her to sit down with me and go through what I'd researched and discovered. I was told this was "my" problem, not "our" problem. In addition, I was loathed to commence the plan and attempt to instigate the necessary routine without first securing a full-time 'office' job. I knew that whatever I ended up doing, the working hours for that job would have to be taken into account and if there's one thing I hate it's having to totally re-do a plan, document, or project simply because it wasn't planned with foresight in the first place.

And that's where the plan's been for almost a year now. Dormant. In stasis, waiting to be commenced with a push of a mental big-red-button that said, "OK, here we go, this is it. Do not divert from the path".

Me being well won't make it any more likely that I'll get a job. The two things are linked tenuously at best. Unfortunately, if I continue to wait for the day I do land a job that covers the rent and enables me to start paying down my debt, then I am relinquishing the power to commence my own recovery, and passing it to a bunch of faceless Torontonians who appear to have no intention whatsoever of offering me even the most rudimentary of jobs. I'm not going to rant about HRM people again but I do still feel spurned, black-balled, and discriminated against. At best, I'm suspicious and resentful. Global recession my arse.

So I'm at a bit of a loss. I have a few weeks' worth of liquid assets left before I am in a financial situation that is beyond my power to manage or control. Yet it seems futile to re-instigate the recovery plan when working full-time is so essential to preventing my my anxiety being triggered and self-worth being dissolved. It appears likely that no recovery plan, no matter how brilliant and thoroughly-researched, would have any beneficial effect while my temperament is being so earnestly undercut and proverbially blown out of the water by the fact that I'm a near-38 year old who can't fend for himself.

Equally, I know from past experience that I cannot just take the first open job I see, because if it isn't at least a little worthwhile then I will feel ashamed by it, embarrassed to be doing it, and ultimately anxious...too scared to tell anyone that that's what I'm doing. It will probably also lead to depression within a few weeks.

If you're pig-ignorant of mental illness then this will probably sound like snobbery or vanity to you, but it's run-of-the-mill to me and my lovely disorders.

Suggestions welcomed.

Dog tired

On my routine, mental-health-recovery-plan rides through Taylor Creek Park and the Don Valley I often come into contact with these panting, frolicking, ultimately moronic but I suppose cute-in-a-way life forms. More so now that the weather is improving.

Oh, and their pet dogs too.

Help me understand, please. Somebody, somewhere who reads this must own a dog, or have owned a dog at sometime. Is there some bizarre, inexplicable effect that acquiring a dog has on the human psyche, reducing their IQ to that of the pets they just acquired? Does owning a dog make you more 'doggy'? Is that what people mean when they say that dogs tend to look like their owners or vice versa? That, over time, the human owner slowly takes on the mentality of his or her beloved pet?

I only ask because I had to grind to a shuddering halt FIVE TIMES in one ride this morning because dog owners can't control their pets. It wasn't the worst 'dogsperience' I've had riding this route. There was the time earlier this year I had to actually jump off my bike and use it as a shield to avoid getting bitten as the slack-jawed, lackadaisical owner trudged over to get his animal under control, muttering, "Oh...sorry" or something equally inane and inadequate.

Oh, and as an aside, don't even get me started on the pounds of dogshit I've had to hose off my bike and my shoes because dog owners are too fucking irresponsible to pick up after their pets. That's a whole other can of worms...or shit, if you prefer.

Dog owners seem to walk around in a carefree, 'dog' world of their own. Everything is fun, new, exciting. Everything needs to be investigated or sniffed, though I admit I have yet to see one dog owner sniffing another dog owner's arse. They seem to be oblivious to everything going on around them, including me on my bike.

Before I get any bullshit comments like, "Oh, well, maybe the owner didn't see you or know you were there," let me explain a little bit about me on my bike. I'll use the five senses most humans are blessed with as a guide.

Smell is irrelevant. I don't smell, and neither does my bike. Touch is irrelevant too. It doesn't take a MENSA graduate to understand that if the dog owner can actually feel me or my bike then it's probably too late for them to get the Chicken McFuck out of my way. Similarly taste is no help. If you can taste metal or rubber, then chances are it's too late.

Let's talk about the most obvious one first, sight.

First of all, my bike is blue and yellow. No, it's not sunflower dust, tangerine, morning sky, aquamarine, or any other bullshit colour name you see on home decor paint cans or in fashion show reviews. It's royal blue. Metallic royal blue in fact. And the yellow trim isn't subtle, it's what I'd call in-your-face vibrant yellow. Nothing else in the trails of Toronto is royal metallic blue and yellow as far as I'm aware, so there's little chance of it blending into the - generally - green and brown background.

Then there's my clothing. I've been racing bikes since 1986 in the UK, and the majority of my riding has been on the road or track. Thanks to this heritage I tend to opt for 'road' style cycling garb rather than grunge-style MTB/surf/snowboard-style garments. This means lycra and neoprene in abundance, and none of it's subtle. As I think about it, ALL the jerseys I wear have a minimum of three colours on them, and the shorts a minimum of two. My crash hat is bright blue and white. My gloves are black and bright yellow. My shades, in a hilariously ironic twist of fate, are rose-tinted (good for overcast, rainy, or dim light conditions).

My point is, how the fuck can somebody not see me coming?! I'm like a fucking cockroach on a white rug! Astronauts can probably see me from space f'chrissakes! "Hey Buzz, look - I think we're coming around to the Great Wall of China again...HOLY SHIT! What's that blue and yellow thing motoring through the top of North America?"

Now sound, or hearing if you prefer.

My tyres roar over the shingle. My gears click. The chain rattles as I navigate berms, logs, or dips in the terrain. There's a distinctive snap when I change gear. There's a different kind of distinctive snap when I ride over loose twigs and branches. Stones get flicked aside by the tyres and make sound as they hit the shrubbery on the side of the trail. The front shocks creak and groan because - for the life of me - I can't figure out how to get the bloody things apart to be able to grease the springs inside them. The saddle squeaks and creaks.

Then there's me.

I'm no Olympic hopeful so more often than not I'm gasping for air, and/or blowing great chunks of snot and christ knows what else out of my nostrils as I go along. I have GAD, so on some occasions when I'm trying to navigate an obstacle that literally scares the living piss out of me, I'll probably be cursing at the top of my voice. Come to think of it, it's not totally uncommon for me to let out a resounding, "SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!!" as I'm thundering down a steep downhill, and fearing imminent injury or death. I'm smoking cigarettes/cigars again too (not when I'm riding, I hasten to add) so I normally I can only ride for 20 minutes without hacking more than Neo, Trinity, and the entire cast of The Matrix trilogy combined.

Again, my point is, how the fuck can people not HEAR me coming from miles away? It isn't noisy in Taylor Creek Park. Besides, if I start to get close to the idiot dog and its idiot owner I usually shout to let them know which side of them I'm about to pass them on. Dog owners have a tendency to believe that they are the only person in the entire park and therefore can walk right in the middle of every trail, or wherever the fuck else they feel like walking, so it's important to make their idiot mind up for them.

I must temper this commentary by duly noting that not all dog owners are morons. Those blessed with an iota of spacial awareness take their dogs by the collar and hold them out of the way when they see or hear me coming. These are the people who actually care for their pets, and realise their beloved Rover wouldn't be quite the same if he was wedged in the tread of my front tyre like viscous hairy jam.

The trouble is that the split between the responsible owners and the league of extraordinary morons is only about 50/50.

My rides on this route used to be cathartic. Not only the physical exercise that all GAD or depression recovery suggestions stipulate, but also the whole 'man against the elements' aspect. Especially when the snow was a foot deep everywhere. Also, the near-death experiences when I do attempt obstacles and actually make it alive boost my confidence no end.

Alas, this morning I returned home sapped and angry. Sapped because - like a gormless newbie - I totally forgot that the only thing I actually 'ate' yesterday was one can of Kronenberg and six cans of Heineken. Trust me, a liquid, alcoholic diet the day before and a meagre bowl of Sultana Bran the 'morning of' doesn't cut it in terms of cycling stamina. My favourite breakfast when racing in my 20s was an entire can of rice pudding.

So, an hour into the ride my legs turned to jelly, half an hour later I'd drained the entire two-litre capacity of my CamelBak, and shortly after that I just couldn't ride uphill anymore. I had to cut down from the technical trail and take the tourist trail back home again, muddy and gutted.

I have to say though, one good thing did come of my canine encounters. Over the last couple of days I've considered suicide. By the time I got back from Taylor Creek Park at lunchtime, my most distinctive thought was, "Why the fuck should I - of all people - top myself when there's dozens of total morons stumbling around who should be - at minimum - castrated so they can't have any moron offspring, but preferably just summarily shot. No, tortured and then shot."

Every cloud of dogshit has a silver lining, I guess.

The British Way

The overwhelming feeling this morning is shame. For making such a fuss. For being such a cry-baby.

It doesn't feel like it makes it any less likely that I'll 'off' myself at some point in the future. It just makes me feel like I should do it discreetly. Tidily. Quietly. With class. With a stiff upper lip. With all my affairs in order, and written instructions on what to do with my possessions. However, that may be a moot point given that everything I possess, when sold, might not even clear my debt.

Don't worry Ian, I'll make sure you get first dibbs on my music collection, though you have to share the deep house with Nadia and the rest with Andrew.

The other thing that struck me as I sat smoking a cigar in my dressing gown on the porch circa 7.45am, other than a throatful of phlegm, was how strange it was for Ms. X (I'm not about to reveal the names of the people in my group therapy group) to be so aggressive with me about tardiness and doughnuts (see blog entries for 2nd May if you don't know what I'm talking about). Sure, we all agreed that group needs to be spiced up a bit, but the way she spoke to me reminded me of how Nicole used to speak to me - as if I wasn't ill at all.

Let's face it, this isn't a fucking painting class. We don't meet for tea and biccies every week to exchange knitting patterns or swap stamps. Everyone in the group has a disorder. Actually, most people - myself included - have more than one. Everyone in the group is prone to insomnia, to lethargy, to a life-wrecking, soul-destroying lack of confidence that makes it impossible to peek from under the duvet some days let alone get out the door.

In which case, how the fuck could anyone have the ignorant, insensitive audacity to criticise someone with such disorders for being late? I ask you! It's like criticising someone with a broken leg for hopping f'chrissakes. What really worries me though is the fact that this isn't someone who's new to mental illness. All this came from someone who's still recovering from it.

Is that what happens when we get well? We forget EVERYTHING that we've just experienced? Everything we've learned?

As soon as we're ready to re-enter society then we automatically pretend we were never one of 'those people' and cover-up our past? Is that how humans work?

Just to cap it all, Ms. X won't be in group again because last week was her last week. So I don't even have any recourse. I can't punch her lights out or tell her how incredibly shit she made me feel. Perhaps that's one of the intrinsic learning opportunities of group therapy. That life isn't fair. That there is no justice. That the rich get richer, the poor get poorer, and when you're clinging on to the toilet bowl of life, trying not to get flushed, the best you can expect is just to get shit on even more.

Nothing much to say...

...but I thought I'd better let anyone who read yesterday's entry know that I'm still here.

Slept 4.40am to 7.15am.

Feel like shit on a stick, though unsure the extent to which missing a day's dosage of anti-nutter pills contributed to my mood yesterday. When I mentioned to someone in group a few months ago that I couldn't really 'feel' Effexor having any effect on me when I took it, they replied, "Wait 'til you try to come off it."

Along with a whole bunch of other things, I guess adherence to prescription protocols will have to be yet another thing I monitor religiously so I can figure out whether I'm getting better or worse. More later.